


Cap’n Jack and Blacklock: A Pirate Honeymoon

by PlainJane



Series: John Watson's way [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Arrests, Complete, Frottage, Homophobia, Honeymoon, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Oral Sex, Pirates, Rimming, Romance, Slash, Treasure Hunting, snorkelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock embark on a tropical honeymoon in Belize. Naturally, Sherlock can't just enjoy the sand and surf. </p><p>NOW COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

****


	2. You can take the boy out of London...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their island get-away begins, but John soon discovers that Sherlock has an ulterior motive for his choice of location.

John drifted awake, his body heated and throbbing. His eyes flickered open in the strange dark room that was lit only by moonlight filtering in through the half-closed louvered doors. The sweet, fragrant, somewhat-salty tropical air tickled his nose even as he became aware of the source of his pleasant awakening: the glorious warmth surrounding his engorged prick.

He moaned, reaching down to stroke his husband’s head only to have his hand bump into an elbow. John turned his head slightly. His cheek brushed against a long, muscular thigh; springy hair tickled his nose.

_Oh._

He was still a little groggy, but obeyed the instinct to roll to his side. He was treated to a pleased and approving rumble from the man between his own thighs as he dug his fingers into Sherlock’s plush bum to drag his hips closer. He rooted in the dark; a straining erection bumped against his parted lips.

John chuckled as he mouthed along the already turgid length and sucked it between his lips, wincing slightly as it stretched the injury there. John ignored the discomfort—it simply wasn’t bad enough to forego this pleasure. He tongued at the sensitive glans and allowed the fraenulum to graze over the ridge behind his front teeth. He held tight as his husband rocked into the motion with a weak groan. The movement on his own cock slowed momentarily as he drew off and then swallowed Sherlock down.

“ _John_!” His husband’s plummy voice followed the popping noise as Sherlock released him. “Oh, god, John.”

John hummed happily, swallowing around the cock in his throat and nuzzling into the dark pubic hair. He sucked hard as he pulled back then wrapped his fist around the base to pump as he began to bob in and out. He felt soft lips wrap back around his own aching prick; his hips twitched forward in response.

John slurped a little, delighting in the indecent noises they were making in their darkened hotel room. Sherlock was keening now, the desperate little sounds vibrating against John’s sensitive flesh. John slid his fingertips between the cheeks of the lovely bottom in his hands and stroked over his husband’s entrance.

Sherlock arched into the caress, groaning as one deft finger slid ever so slightly within and began an internal stroke in concert with the rhythm John was employing on his cock. Within seconds, John felt reciprocation. He clenched around the digit now inside him with a grunt of satisfaction.

Together they drifted toward completion, heedless of anything save each other. They were completely alone, in a place where time was irrelevant and distractions unheardof.

In time, John could feel his orgasm approaching. He panted around Sherlock in his mouth, trying to concentrate on the task at hand as his body began to tighten in expectation of release. Sherlock sensed the change, concentrating the use of his tongue on John’s most sensitive areas.

Moments later, John could feel his balls drawing up and he could not help but allow his husband’s cock to slip from his mouth as he shouted his own fulfilment.

“Oh, god, Sherlock! I love you…love you so much…”

Sherlock continued to suck him gently as he came, pumping the one finger in and out of his arse.

Finally, finally, John returned to himself sufficiently to pick up where he’d left off. He sucked Sherlock’s cock back in, tonguing the sensitive flesh as he did and eliciting a wicked hiss from its owner.

Sherlock clung to his thighs, chanting John’s name as the good doctor employed every technique he had learned in the months they’d been lovers to push the taller man to the edge. Finally, Sherlock’s hips snapped forward and the lean body shuddered.

“John!!”

John swallowed contentedly, gently stroking the base of his husband’s cock with his hand as he came.

They lay side by side, spent and unable to move save for the fingertips teasing over backs and hips as they recovered.

When Sherlock had finally regained enough strength, he shimmied over the mattress and flipped back around so they were face to face. He kissed John immediately, wrapping one arm around his head and plundering his mouth. John returned the kiss with equal passion, wrapping his own arm around Sherlock’s waist to drag their bodies together from top to toe.

Drowsiness returned swiftly, however, as they were both reminded of the body clock confusion they were still suffering. Heated kisses softened and grasping hands slowed. John had rolled onto his back again; Sherlock sprawled over him. Soft curls nestled in under John’s jaw and the arm around his head now draped possessively around his chest.

John snuggled in with a sigh and allowed sleep to claim him.

_______________________________

There was a soft ringing noise somewhere. John slapped an arm at the night table that was not there, grunting a little as his hand swished through the air.

“Phone.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse with sleep, but still commanding.

John grumbled a little as he lifted his head, ready to complain that his lover was a lazy sod when he was reminded of their current whereabouts. He glanced at the exotic wood-panelled room and then at the king-sized bed beneath them with its crisp, white linens.

“Mmmm, honeymoon.”

He turned his head to regard the man whose limbs were now draped luxuriously over his naked back, dark head only inches from John’s on the soft pillow.

John smiled fondly and kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

“No.”

“’No’ what, love?”

“No up,” Sherlock grumped, eyes still closed.

“Funny thing coming from you, my restless somniphobe.”

“M’not ‘fraid of sleep; s’just boring,” the man mumbled. “S’different. M’jet-lagged. Sore.”

“Right,” John acknowledged. He tugged himself free of Sherlock’s weight and rolled to face the man. Sherlock curled in on himself, but offered no resistance when John lifted his hair to inspect first the abrasion on his cheek and then the gash on his forehead. John removed one edge of his dressing from the airport two days before. He looked at the deep cut briefly before recovering it, satisfied.

He kissed his husband’s nose again.

His _husband_.

“No,” Sherlock repeated, tugging the sheet up and over his head. The strange ringing sounded again. It was coming from the villa’s small lounge.

John chuckled softly and smoothed a hand over the cotton-covered lump. “Fine. I will get up and go find out what’s making that noise.”

He slid from their bed and padded around on the cool tile floor, looking for something convenient to put on. He noticed a pair of fluffy white bathrobes hanging from hooks near the door that lead to their en-suite. He retrieved one and pulled it on before tugging open the louvered doors separating their bedroom from the lounge, kitchen and indoor dining area.

John entered the brightly coloured room, looking out through the doors which connected it, like their bedroom, to the private terrace and pool area beyond. The sun was up and the water lapping at their secluded little strip of beach was the most extraordinary shade of turquoise.

He caught a glimpse of himself as he passed a large mirror in a copper frame; he was not a pretty sight. His right eye had turned a lovely shade of purple and his lip had swollen a bit (thanks, no doubt, to the aggravation it received in the middle of the night). He had covered over the cut on his cheek, but, overall, he looked (and felt, thanks to a couple of bruised ribs) exactly like a man who’d been kidnapped by the Russian mob on his wedding day.

It had not, perhaps, been every person’s idea of the perfect nuptials, but then John had long since made his peace with the fact that he would not be leading a conventional sort of life. Nor did he want to.

The ringing sounded again—he realized it was a very subdued version of a doorbell and proceeded to what looked like the main entry door. John opened it cautiously, peeking around to see who was calling.

A very tall (somewhere in the vicinity of 6’3”, John would wager) and well-built young man of about 25, with skin the colour of rich caramel, was smiling back at him, a large basket in his arms. “Good morning, Mr. Holmes! My name is Elijah. I’ll be your butler during your stay.”

John smiled. “Good morning, Elijah. Actually, I’m Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes is still asleep.”

“My apologies, sir,” the young man said swiftly. “Ordinarily we would simply leave your morning and mid-day meals in the kitchen for you, but there was an addition to your delivery today.”

John stepped aside to let the young man in and watched as Elijah attempted to look as though he weren’t visually sweeping the room as he passed through it. Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed, but John Watson was not most people. _Curious._ And the young man’s accent was a little different than those they’d heard thus far, with an almost British tinge…

John shook his head. He was instinctively looking for clues where there was no mystery—a Sherlockian side effect.

“I am sorry to wake you,” Elijah said.

John noted the trays as well as a medium-sized box in the small golf-type cart parked just outside their door. “That’s all right,” he said cheerfully. “Time we were up and about anyway.” He regarded their new butler as he set what looked like baked goods down on the counter. “If you don’t mind my saying, your accent is a very interesting. Are there many dialects in Belize?”

Elijah smiled. “Ah, you noticed that,” he replied. “Culturally, Belize is very diverse, but my accent is probably a little influenced by my time in Britain. My family moved there when I was fourteen.” He made his way back to the door. “I studied hospitality management at West London College.”

“Oh, right,” John said, considering this for a few moments. Elijah re-entered the villa, laden with trays. “So you decided to move back here?”

Elijah stopped where he was. He turned to regard the tropical sea visible through the open doors then gave John a funny look.

John nodded with a wry smile. Obviously not everyone shared his (and Sherlock’s) passion for London. _And it is very beautiful here._ “Fair point.”

Elijah chuckled a little as he continued to the small kitchen.

“Will Mr. Holmes be up soon? Only he did request the extra items to be delivered—from our national archive. He asked that he receive them in person.”

“Did he? Well, then.” John grinned. “Why don’t you bring everything in? I’ll go and wake Sleeping Beauty.”

He left Elijah to it and made his way back to his beloved in bed.

“Sherlock,” he called from the doorway. “Afraid you’re going to have to get up.”

“No.”

“Yes,” John sat on the bed beside his husband’s white-shrouded body. “There is a young man here with some books and things you asked for.”

“Not now.”

“Yes, now.” John grabbed at the sheet, instigating a tug-of-war with the man beneath. “You asked them to make sure you received this in person. It’s here. Get. Up.”

The sheet gave way (clearly Sherlock had released it) and a pouting, sleepy detective appeared. John melted a little at the tousled sexiness of the man he loved. He leaned in for a kiss, which was granted without hesitation, in spite of the disgruntled expression on the man’s face.

“Come on, lazybones,” John prompted. “Come and meet Elijah and I will make you some coffee.”

Sherlock sighed heavily, rolled to his back and then turned to look out through the doors at the sea beyond.

“It’s very pretty, isn’t it, John?”

“Yes, it is,” John agreed, brushing his knuckles over Sherlock’s cheek. “And if you get up, we can go out and enjoy it.”

John eased himself off the bed and made his way back to the kitchen.

Elijah was laying out trays of fruit. Fresh eggs and a platter of chilled seafood of every description went into the refrigerator.

“This looks lovely,” John mused. “Didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

Elijah laughed. “It’s the Caribbean air.” He disappeared outside again just as Sherlock entered the room, wrapped—predictably—in their bed sheet.

“Coffee?” He wiped at his eyes and yawned, leaning heavily into John’s body where he stood at the kitchen’s breakfast bar.

“I did promise, didn’t I?”

“Hmmm.”

John turned and rubbed his stubbled cheek against Sherlock’s, revelling in the soothing skritchy sound. Sherlock snuffled at John’s hair before pulling back abruptly when Elijah came in again.

John puzzled over this as Sherlock hovered nearby and their butler moved toward the sitting area, laden with the cardboard box. It was filled with what looked like old books, manuscripts and…

“Are those maps?” John asked. Sherlock moved swiftly to intercept the box, somehow managing to retrieve it from Elijah without losing his grip on the sheet. “Sherlock, this is Elijah. He’ll be looking after us while we’re he—”

Sherlock nodded in the young man’s direction and wandered away with his delivery without a word, through the doors leading from the lounge and out onto the terrace.

John turned to where Elijah still stood, looking a bit confused. “Thanks. He does appreciate it. He’s just…” John waved a hand. “Never mind. So if I wanted to make some coffee?”

The younger man nodded, clearly more comfortable. “We have an excellent machine here,” he offered, directing John to it on the countertop before handing John a small paper bag. “And I’ll bring fresh coffee every day.”

John looked over the machine and decided it didn’t look overly complicated. “Splendid. Thanks.”

“I will leave you in peace, then,” the young man grinned. “Eduardo will deliver your evening meal here at 7 p.m., as yesterday. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“I think we’ll manage,” John said amiably.

Elijah nodded again and strode back to the door. “Oh, and the launch for your snorkelling excursion will be here at 10:00.”

John glanced up, startled. “Snorkelling?”

_____________________________________

“Are you sure this attire is appropriate, John?”

“Trust me, love.” John tossed towels, hats, sunscreen and sunglasses into his duffle bag while Sherlock fussed in the loo. “If I had known, I’d have taken you shopping before we left, but this will do fine.”

Sherlock emerged from the en suite. Slowly. He was staring down at himself and tugging on the swim trunks they had picked up in a gift shop in the Miami airport. They were bright green and covered in tropical fish.

The “board shorts” (as they were informed by the young women in the shop) hung to just above Sherlock’s knees, still exposing an impressive length of the man’s very toned limbs. John nodded, trying not to stare at his husband’s lovely legs.

He cleared his throat. “Good. Yeah. They look fine.”

“John, are you being completely honest with me?” Sherlock asked. A faint and barely recognizable hint of self-consciousness tinged the deep voice. He looked down again at the pale blue polo shirt they had also purchased. “This is…I don’t…”

John dropped the bag and stepped toward the man, drawing him into a fierce hug. “I’m sure I’ve seen you in far stranger togs, love.”

“Pretending to be someone _else_ , yes,” Sherlock agreed, relaxing into John’s embrace. “But I’m fairly certain I look ridiculous in these.”

“And _I’m_ fairly certain you would look splendid in anything you chose to wear.” He kissed Sherlock soundly. When they were both short of breath, he retreated with a wicked smile. “You are a ridiculously handsome man.”

Sherlock’s chin came up, just a bit, and he nodded. “Then I’m ready.”

John winked at him. “Not quite.” He reached behind him and grabbed the bottle of sunscreen from the top of his bag. “You should coat yourself before we go. Best not give that alabaster skin of yours any chance to burn.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Wasn’t a suggestion, actually.”

“It smells funny.”

“It’s supposed to. Come on—arms and legs now. I can do the rest of you before we get in the water.”

“The _rest_ of me?”

“Back and chest. You know, once you take your shirt off.”

“John, I am not taking my shirt off in front of strangers.”

“Are you—you went to Buckingham Palace in a _sheet._ You stood on the pavement outside our flat in central London in the altogether. You’re really going to argue about taking your shirt off in front of one or two other people?”

“It’s different.”

“Wha—how?”

“It. Just. Is.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him. “Do I quiz you about your sock removal fetish?”

John sighed, chuckling. “Fine. But do your arms and legs at least. I’ve already done mine.”

Sherlock stepped close, dragging a finger over John’s frayed and well-worn RAMC t-shirt. “Wouldn’t you rather do them for me?”

“Oh, you know I would, but…”

There was a shout from the end of the small dock leading from their strip of the beach. John grabbed the duffle bag and took Sherlock’s hand. “Too late. We’ll just have to do it on the boat.”

“What exactly does one do while ‘snorkelling’?” Sherlock asked as they crossed the room to the terrace.

“Look at the fish, and the reef.”

“Oh.”

“It’ll be fun. The water will be warm and marine life is fascinating.” John glanced back over his shoulder as they reached the terrace. “Didn’t you know what it was when you booked it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not specifically. They said it was a recommended activity. And you mentioned once how much you’d enjoyed water sports while you were in Australia.”

John stopped dead at the foot of their private pool and turned to face his husband. “You really are amazing.” With a quick kiss, he smacked the taller man’s arse. “Let’s go, you sexy thing.”

“Welcome!” a voice called to them as they finally reached the beach and the end of their small dock. An older man in a **Cliff’s Caye Adventures** shirt smiled at them from where he stood, one foot in the boat and one on the dock where he was holding fast to a mooring. A young couple (more honeymooners?) were already settled in the back. “You are Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?”

John nodded with a smile, stepping down into the boat. He shook the offered hand. “I’m John Watson,” he supplied. “This is Sherlock Holmes.” The lanky detective nodded at the man as he stepped gracefully into the launch, seating himself across from the young couple.

“I am Cliff,” He gestured then to the young couple. “And two of the people you’ll be snorkelling with today: Daniel and Emily Horowitz.”

The young woman smiled shyly at John, who suddenly felt very old. Her husband, though, gave him a strange look then turned to take in Sherlock.

“Oh, uhm…” John started, remembering what they must look like. “We had a spot of bother before our flight—work-related. We work with the police. We’re all right now, though.”

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to…” Daniel looked a little embarrassed. American, John realized. _Could be good, or…_ “So you work together, and you’re on vacation…together?” Daniel asked, his voice suddenly suspicious.

John bristled. He dropped into the seat next to Sherlock, mentally preparing for battle. It had been a while since he’d been required to defend or even explain their relationship. Before he could say anything, though, his husband’s voice cut in.

“John, here, has been through a rather difficult divorce,” Sherlock shammed shamelessly, his smile toothy. He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him and draping both arms over the edge of the boat. “Couldn’t let my best mate wallow in despair, so I hooked us up with a tropical vacation and some very attractive air hostesses. The ladies are having a lie-in this morning.”

Daniel nodded. “Gotcha,” he chuckled, winking at John while his young bride blushed.

John bit his tongue to keep from laughing out loud.

“Let’s be off!” Cliff shouted cheerfully. He reversed the boat away from the dock. “We’ll make our way out to the catamaran to join the rest of our guests and crew.” He turned them out toward the open water. “But for now, welcome to beautiful Belize: founded by Baymen and built on mahogany!”

“Baymen?” John repeated, intrigued.

“Pirates!” Cliff called back enthusiastically.

John turned an amused expression to his husband, who was suddenly fascinated by the water. “Is that so?”

“It’s a fact! Some say there may still be treasure hidden out on the cayes,” Cliff continued. “But most people think it’s all been found by now. Of course, if you knew where to look...”

John laughed out loud, thinking about the box of maps and books in their lounge. Then in a voice only Sherlock would be able to hear, he said, “Just imagine if someone were clever enough to work that out.”


	3. Chapter 3




	4. Paradise is relative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every honeymoon needs some gratuitous shagging...

“What are these again?”

John glanced up from his eggs at the small, deep-fried item covered in icing sugar Sherlock was holding up for inspection. “That is a fryjack.”

“And this one?”

“Johnnycake,” John mumbled through a mouthful of fresh fruit. He washed it down with some coffee. “Are you going to sit there and ask me about everything in the basket?”

“No. I know what _those_ are.” Sherlock pointed at the fresh corn tortillas. He picked up the first item he’d queried and took a thoughtful bite.

“Well?” John asked.

“Sort of scone-like. Almost.” He reached across the table and offered it to John for a bite.

“Mmmm. S’good,” John nodded. “Are you sure you don’t want some eggs? You didn’t eat much for supper last night.”

The detective popped the last bite of the fryjack into his mouth and tugged the over-sized straw hat down onto his head. He sighed as he ran fingertips over the smattering of small red bumps on his arms. “I’m still not terribly hungry.”

John sagged at the man’s obvious discomfort. “I’m so sorry, love. Can I get you some more ointment?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s fine. They aren’t bothering me much. At the moment.”

“I should have insisted you reapply the repellent before we went back in after lunch,” John said, feeling a little guilty.

“John, you had no way of knowing I would be sensitive to sea lice.”

“Yes, well…”

“I know,” Sherlock drawled. “And you do take excellent care of me. Look: not a spot of sunburn anywhere!”

Sherlock held his arms wide for John’s perusal. He had wrapped himself in a towel after a quick shower that morning, stopping only for the floppy hat before joining John on the terrace. And it was true—the liberal application of sunscreen had protected his fair skin all day. Although John was enjoying the tinge of pink across his husband’s nose.

And the freckles. _God,_ the freckles. John had always strongly suspected, but now he was sure: there was a ginger lurking somewhere in the Holmes family tree.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying not to look like he was _readjusting_.

“John.”

“Hmmm?”

“I may not be hungry, but I am feeling quite a bit better this morning.”

John looked up to find Sherlock leering at him. A bottle of lube had mysteriously appeared in his hand.

“Perhaps…”

John had already dropped his fork and lunged across the table. He drew Sherlock to his feet even as he slanted their mouths together hungrily. He dragged the taller man with him back toward their bed, just through the open doors. Sherlock tugged back.

“I think,” he gasped. “Here will do, don’t you?” He inclined his head in the direction of their private plunge pool, now dappled by early morning sun, and the double-wide lounger set on the deck beside it only a few steps from where they stood.

John nodded immediately, his cock swelling as he pictured making love outdoors. Slowly. “God, yes.”

The tripped and fumbled their way toward the pool, kissing noisily. John slipped Sherlock’s towel free and discarded it as the taller man tugged at the belt on his robe. John let it slide down and off, giggling a little as he stumbled over it. He captured his husband’s mouth once more with a long, needy moan.

Sherlock gripped John’s bicep for balance as John filled each of his hands with a pert buttock and kneaded. The kiss deepened, heated, as cocks grazed hipbones and pressed into bellies. Sherlock hummed his approval into John’s mouth and slid his hand up from John’s arm to wrap around his neck.

John moved to guide them back toward the lounger. He reached up and clumsily tugged the hat from Sherlock’s head, which caused the man to protest weakly against his cheek.

“I like it.”

“Not shagging you in a floppy hat,” John mumbled, licking at his husband’s lovely collarbone.

Sherlock pulled back for a moment, clearly intrigued.

“Shut it.” John ensured Sherlock’s silence by claiming his mouth once more. He felt rather than saw when they’d reached their destination—Sherlock wavered a little as the backs of his calves bumped into the large piece of woven rattan furniture.

The taller man recovered quickly, dropping to sit on the edge of the cushioned surface and abandoning the lube beside him to tug at his husband’s hips. He nuzzled into John’s bare belly, idly rubbing circles into John’s flesh with his thumbs. John sighed, allowing both hands to rest on tangled curls as Sherlock sucked a mark into the slightly-softer-than-it-used-to-be tummy beside his belly button. John let his chin drop to his chest, revelling in the simplest of caresses—something that should, by rights, tickle and make him squirm. Somehow Sherlock found a way to make it incredibly erotic.

“What do you want?” the man rumbled finally, raising his eyes.

 _They’re almost the colour of the sea today_ , John marvelled.

“I don’t—” John’s cock throbbed. He had, in fact, been considering the answer to this question (should it happen to arise) during his morning ablutions. Sometimes it paid to think ahead. “I think I want you to fuck me. Slowly. Face to face.”

“You _think_?” One dark brow arched.

“Please,” John said softly, carding through Sherlock’s hair. “Please fuck me.”

Sherlock nodded his assent, returning his mouth to John’s body. His lips teased and tasted, following the fine trail of light brown hair to his prize. He sighed a little as he hunkered down to take John into his mouth.

“Oh, my love,” John breathed. He let his eyes flutter shut and tried to keep his fingers from clenching in curls as Sherlock tongued at his slit.

Sherlock hummed in reply, tugging at John’s hips and sliding his cock deeper into his mouth. He drew off and flattened his tongue against the underside of John’s prick as he sucked him back in again. He began to bob in earnest, his fingertips digging into John as he leveraged himself against his doctor’s body.

John opened his eyes in time to see Sherlock bottoming out, nose burrowed into the wiry hair of his groin. His breath hitched in his chest as the man swallowed around him. Bright eyes suddenly snapped up to meet his. John tried to smile, though the effort dissolved into a gaping “O” as Sherlock slowly pulled back off him.

Sherlock’s smile was wicked. He tugged on John’s hand and slid backwards on the lounger to make room. John knelt onto the cushion and leaned down to capture the Cupid’s bow. He sucked on it, occasionally flicking at the seam of his husband’s mouth with his tongue. Sherlock allowed this tender assault; guiding John forward and then easing him back down onto the cushion.

John settled comfortably against the slightly elevated back of the lounger, opening his arms to receive his husband as the man crawled over him. John spread his thighs to allow Sherlock’s lithe frame to slide between them.

Sherlock grazed the line of his own hardening length over John’s aching cock. He braced his upper body on his hands above John’s shoulders as he rocked them together.

“I love you,” John whispered. His fingers moved over the firmness of Sherlock’s pectoral muscles, his right hand whispering over the scar on Sherlock’s shoulder. He was momentarily distracted as he rubbed a thumb over the puckered skin. It had been so close…

“No closer than how close I came to never knowing you,” Sherlock’s rich voice was warm in John’s ear but then immediately disappeared as Sherlock dipped his head to place tender kisses over the mirroring scar on John’s own shoulder. John smiled a little: Of course he knew. Didn’t he always?

Sherlock shifted their hips together once more, returning John to the present. He gasped a little at the delightful friction as Sherlock pulsed gently, focussing the contact head to head. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and held on to the strong arms on either side of him.

Sherlock kissed the line of his clavicle as he ground their bodies together. John began to pant about the time he felt one (possibly both) of them beginning to leak pre-come. “There—THERE! Oh fuck, yes.”

Sherlock drew back to watch him, still moving, and they stared at each other for what seemed like an age. Finally, at the moment John was about to plead for mercy, Sherlock slowed and lifted. He reached back for the bottle of lube. John exhaled with relief—he wouldn’t have lasted much longer. And he really, really wanted to.

Sherlock dropped his bottom to the cushion beside John’s hip; leaving his long legs curled around one of John’s. John, for his part, lifted the other knee out to the side and placed his foot flat against the lounger. He watched as Sherlock quickly slicked his fingers and eagerly met the man halfway as he leaned up to flick his tongue over John’s lips.

Deft digits slid over John’s perineum and he willed his body to relax as the first finger pressed home. As he pumped gently in and out of John’s heat, Sherlock curled to kiss down over John’s chest. John shivered with anticipation.

Warm breath moistened one nipple, hovering just above but not touching. John growled his need. Sherlock released a heavy breath over the sensitised nub.

“Ohhhhh, god!”

John could not restrain himself from grasping at his lover’s head, attempting to drag the hot, teasing mouth to his chest.

“Please…”

A tongue appeared, flicking maddeningly.

“Jesus, Sherlock—I swear I will kill you if—ahhhhh!”

The sweet, perfect, heart-shaped mouth closed over John’s nipple and began to suck. Sherlock took advantage of John’s mewling mindlessness to offer the first stimulation to his prostate.

“ _Fuckingbuggeringhell!_ ”

Sherlock hummed his amusement against his husband’s body, grunting a little as John’s fingers tightened in his hair.

“Oh, god. SO good, so—” John’s gasped as Sherlock added another finger to his arse. “Soooo fucking good.”

Sherlock drew off the first nipple with a graze of teeth before dragging his mouth across to begin again on the other one. John hissed as Sherlock stretched him just a little too enthusiastically.

“Gently, love.”

Sherlock drew back to meet his eyes again for a moment. The pressure eased somewhat; John nodded with a crooked smile. He spread a little wider and took his time pushing down into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock obliged, thrusting a little deeper with each stroke. He pressed carefully against the resistance of John’s body before slowly adding a third finger. He dipped his head to reclaim the pebbled morsel of John’s nipple.

John could do nothing but moan helplessly, writhing with the twin stimulants of Sherlock’s talented mouth and very dexterous fingers. He slid into a rhythm with Sherlock’s hand, biting his lip against more colourful curses.

“Now, Sherlock. Now, please,” he breathed at least, when he could finally draw enough air into his lungs.

Sherlock withdrew and wiggled his fingers from John’s bottom. John stretched up to slant his mouth over Sherlock’s while the man lubed his cock. Sherlock pressed into the kiss as he rolled back in between John’s thighs. John eagerly wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist as the blunt tip prodded at his arse.

John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth as his husband began to fill him with aching slowness. John’s legs tightened. Sherlock stroked his tongue over John’s own before releasing his mouth. He panted, forehead to John’s, eyes open.

“Mine,” Sherlock rasped. “Mine, always mine.” His balls pressed against the cheeks of John’s arse. “John, John, John.”

“Right here, my love.” John tilted his hips up to improve their angle.

Sherlock pulled out and slid home again; he pressed forward to connect as much of the surface of their now sweat- dampened bodies as possible. John kissed him again, tenderly now. Their tongues circled each other.

“My John.”

John’s wrapped his arms under his husband’s and clutched at his back as they began to find their groove. “My Sherlock.”

The slap and suction of a very earthy fuck was nearly lost in the whispered endearments and tender sentiments Sherlock would scarcely acknowledge never mind voice under any other circumstances.

John’s eyes, having fluttered closed with yet another brush against his sweet spot, suddenly opened. He was stunned to look up at the beautiful, clear blue sky and the Caribbean sunshine. It was difficult to believe they were actually here. Like this. Making love in a tropical paradise.

“Fuck, John—it—I…”

John slid a hand between them to fist his own somewhat neglected cock. Within a few strokes, his body had recalled Sherlock’s earlier ministrations. “I’m there, love. Come for me. Come inside me, Sherlock.”

The pained shout Sherlock released as his hips snapped forward vibrated into John’s body as the man’s chest pressed into him. John grunted as he tipped over the edge, smearing his release into the very minimal space between them as Sherlock spilled inside him.

Warm lips pressed gentle kisses into John’s jaw. Sherlock continued with shallow thrusts as he rode out his orgasm.

Long minutes later, John began to resurface. He was hot, sweaty and sticky.

“I need another shower,” he muttered happily.

Sherlock lifted his weight slightly. He looked between them at the mess. “Might be a good idea.”

The crystal clear water of the pool drew John’s attention. “Or perhaps…”

Sherlock rolled to the side and stretched. “A swim?”

John uncoiled his body and rolled to stand. He retrieved Sherlock’s towel and gave himself a good wipe-up. He didn’t hear Sherlock approaching but smiled as the long arms wrapped around him. Sherlock nibbled at his neck thoughtfully.

John turned in his embrace to tidy him up as well. When he was satisfied that they were both reasonably clean, he strode to the end of the pool and stepped in. The water was beautifully body temperature as he walked down into it.

There was a loud splash—he looked up to see that his husband had jumped in and gone in up to his chest. John swam out to him; within minutes they’d reclaimed their post-coital closeness.

They rolled in the water, wrapped in each other’s arms, kissing gently and often. 

John let them dip below the surface, his mouth firmly fastened on Sherlock’s. They slid into the silence, floating there for only a moment before John planted his feet once more and pushed them to the surface.

Sherlock drew back from their soggy kiss with a gasp. He shook his damp curls, shedding water like a sheepdog. He fixed John with an irritated look.

“What?” John said innocently. “I was hot.” He leaned back against the brace of Sherlock’s legs still wrapped about his waist and spread his arms against the water.

He should have known. _Really_ should have.

But John was still too pleasantly hazy from his orgasm to think how Sherlock might react. In a flash, the man had uncurled from around him and grabbed him by the shoulders, plunging him beneath the water once more.

John surfaced quickly—sputtering—and reached for the lanky detective, who was now giggling like a fiend. John caught hold of an arm and spun him until the man’s back collided with his chest. He clasped both arms around Sherlock and dunked them both again.

They grappled beneath the water, playfully wrestling and tugging at one another. Sherlock escaped, splashing to the surface and sluicing water behind him at John who was giving chase. There was another tussle before Sherlock (quite happily) conceded. He captured John’s lips and proceeded to pinch at anything he could get his hands on. John sucked at his husband’s hot mouth, digging his fingers into firm flesh.

“Mmm, mine.”

“Yes.” Sherlock nipped at him playfully. “I am.”

John released Sherlock’s lips with one messy tangle of tongues and began to leave another mark on the man’s neck. Sherlock allowed this for a few minutes, murmuring his pleasure, but finally pulled John back up to his greedy mouth, fingers wound into short sandy hair and one leg wrapped back around John’s hips. He pressed their bodies tight together as they slowly drifted down under the water.

When they finally came up for air, they were both short of breath and laughing. John bent to nuzzle at Sherlock’s neck with a satiated hum.

“I love you,” John said again.

Sherlock relaxed into his embrace, his arms draped around John’s back. “And I, you.” He dropped his forehead against John’s shoulder.

They floated peacefully, neither man seeming to be in any hurry to move. John sank into the pleasure of the moment, knowing it could not last for long.

Of course, he was right. It was not long at all before Sherlock became restless.

John smiled to himself as his husband began to fidget. “I suppose you’ll be wanting something to do now,” he teased.

“No. This is…fine.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “You really think I don’t know you well enough to know when you’re bored? I married you, remember. You don’t have to pretend for me.”

Sherlock’s muscles relaxed slightly. “I know,” he said defensively.

John kissed him again before releasing him. Sherlock stood, placed a kiss on the top of John’s head and strode toward the edge of the pool. John was treading water, admiring the world’s most perfect bottom as Sherlock gracefully pulled himself back up onto the deck. “Perhaps you could show me what you’ve found on those treasure maps you were poring over last night.”

Sherlock froze, John’s robe in one hand.

“You didn’t come to bed until nearly daylight. I know that’s what you were doing.”

“I didn’t want to wake you. I wasn’t able to sleep,” Sherlock muttered. “The whole point of this vacation was for you to get some rest.”

“I have done,” John said cheerfully. “And I’m sure I’ll get some more. I’m not bothered about you sitting up all night. When have I ever been?”

Sherlock shrugged. “How did you know what was in the box?”

“Can’t keep secrets from me, my love,” John chuckled. He took a mouthful of water and spat it Sherlock’s back. “At first I _thought_ you might have booked us in here out of _sentiment_ , because I’d mentioned Belize that once, when I was teasing about us eloping.”

“But I did!” Sherlock protested, turning now. He twitched under John’s sceptical gaze. “Initially, at least.”

“Pirates, though?” John continued, leaning on the edge of the pool. “Well, how could you resist?”

Sherlock was biting his lip. “You’re not angry?”

“Why would I be angry?”

“Hunting for pirate treasure on our honeymoon?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“John Watson, you are—”

“I am what?”

Sherlock smiled. “Perfect.”

“Ha! Hardly.” He reached up; Sherlock clasped his hand, pulling him easily from the water. “Though, I think in this instance, that might work to my advantage.”

“This instance?” Sherlock began wrapping him in his robe, one eyebrow arched.

“I think I would make an excellent pirate.”

Sherlock huffed, still smiling.

“Technically, I’m already a captain,” John pointed out.

“Captain John? Hardly inspires the necessary terror, my dear.”

“Mmm, I think for this, I would use my nickname.”

“Three Continents?” Sherlock mused. “I suppose it conveys the appropriate spirit, but I don’t think…”

“No, you git,” John slapped a damp bicep. “Jack!”

“ _Jack_? How many nicknames do you need?”

“Well, it’s _a_ nickname,” John defended. “For John.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. Captain Jack.”

“Captain Jack? Do you see?” John prompted. “Famous pirate, Cap’n Jack?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“Cap’n Jack Sparrow?”

The taller man shook his head.

John sighed. “No. Well, never mind. Bound to be a long shot, really. Though, in my defence, we did just watch the first film in the series at Greg and Molly’s two weeks ago…”

“Ohhhh,” Sherlock chimed in. “Well, if it’s a fictional pirate, that’s an entirely different matter. You can’t possibly think I would pay any attention to such—”

“Trivia,” John finished, amused. “Yes, I know.” He caressed Sherlock’s still-bare bum.

“But if you are the captain, what does that make me?”

“Another captain?”

“No. Can’t have two captains on one ship.”

“We’re not on a ship, love.”

“Right. Of course. Well, then…Captain Sherlock?”

John considered this, ruffling the damp, shaggy, black curls. “How about Blacklock? It’s sort of your name.”

“Though, ironically, somewhat more accurate.” Sherlock stared out at the sea. “I like it. Blacklock and Captain Jack.”

“Cap’n Jack,” John corrected.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he turned to return to their room. He was starting to scratch again. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

“Not exact—hey, hang about! I should probably, you know, check those welts. And then I’ll have to reapply the ointment.”

“Hurry up, then!” Sherlock called back, disappearing into the en suite.

John hustled after his husband, a broad, self-satisfied smile splitting his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! For anyone following this: I do apologize, but there will be a break of about two weeks before the next chapter. I am off to Britain on hols! I really tried to finish everything to post, but a couple of plot points simply wouldn't line up for me. So until I return, have some smut :D


	5. Chapter 5




	6. Of marauders, maps and mischief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally learns what it is Sherlock is searching for...

“So the treasure is hidden somewhere on one of these three little islands?” John shifted a little to point at the spots Sherlock had marked on one of the modern nautical charts. He was lying on his belly on the wicker settee while Sherlock was kneeling on the floor. Following a leisurely shared second shower, they had managed to get as far as donning their complimentary resort robes, but no further.

“Cayes,” Sherlock replied, using the proper ‘keys’ pronunciation. “That has been the theory. However there have been numerous digs at sites on all three and nothing has ever been recovered.” He pulled one of the books from the box Elijah had delivered the day before. “This fellow—Hayes—records his project from research to excavation. Some very interesting highlights; I’ve left markers in the pages. Again, no treasure, though.”

“And it all started with this map,” John repeated, just to clarify. He picked up the photocopy of the obviously antique map Sherlock had requisitioned from the Belize archives. He flattened out the document to look at it.

“Correct. The original was donated to the Belize government in 1998 by the estate of Alfonso Porter, last heir of one of the largest timber family fortunes. The Porters were descended from a notorious privateer, and Alfonso had been an avid collector of associated memorabilia.”

“With you so far,” John nodded. “But all the expeditions used this map and found nothing.” He eyed Sherlock. “And you are just itching to tell me why, aren’t you?”

Sherlock was biting his lip to keep from interrupting. His hands were clasped into tight fists.

John licked his lips. “Well, then,” he chuckled.

“Right,” Sherlock burst out, leaning in eagerly. “First of all, no one has ever identified _whose_ treasure this was meant to be. There is nothing on the map to indicate.”

“Go on,” John beamed at him. “Astonish me.”

“This map leads to a heretofore unknown treasure of Captain Henry Morgan.”

“Do you have any idea how your eyes lit up when you said that?”

“John…”

“It’s just amazing—you look like a little boy on Christmas morning; as though the whole world is new and bright and filled with promise. I don’t think I will ever get tired of that.”

“Still suffering from an excess of soppiness, then.”

“Yup,” John agreed happily. “You haven’t shagged it out of me yet, sorry.”

“But…”

“Honeymoon!”

“Yes, but…”

“Oh, fine,” John sighed. He fiddled with the binding of the book nearest him. “Carry on.”

“As I was saying, the map is on a scroll and has been dated to an approximate time range that would be plausible for any of several of the most notable pirates in this region. However, I don’t believe that the map in the archive is, in fact, the original.”

“Zat so.”

“It is,” Sherlock continued. “As Mycroft indicated, I have always had something of an interest in pirates—”

“Actually, he said you wanted to be one.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “ _Anyway_ , over the years I’ve made a…study…of the subject.” He cleared his throat. “One of the most fascinating tales I’ve come across is that of Huck’s Lost Treasure.”

“And who is Huck?”

Sherlock ignored the question, forging straight into the details. “Based on the scaffold confession of one Elias Eckard. He was a known member of the crew of Edward Teach, or Blackbeard—”

“Blackbeard as well? How does he come into it?”

“Patience,” Sherlock admonished. “Eckard was captured in 1722 off the coast of Virginia. He’d managed to escape the 1718 raid in which Teach and several of his crew were killed and had attempted—quite unsuccessfully—to branch out on his own. He tried to negotiate his release throughout his trial, offering to reveal the locations of pirate coves and sunken treasure. It wasn’t until the day of his execution that he demanded to see the governor. Unfortunately for Eckard, the 1st Earl of Orkney was an absentee governor and his lieutenant governor, Alexander Spotswood, had just been recalled. His successor was delayed at sea.”

“Bad luck.”

“On the scaffold, Eckard claimed to have access to a map leading to the greatest pirate treasure in existence.”

“Buried by Captain Morgan.”

“Exactly. It wasn’t named, of course, but nevertheless…”

“You think it was Morgan and you think Blackbeard had the map.”

Sherlock nodded absent-mindedly. “Blackbeard often bragged about knowing the locations of the hoards belonging to his contemporaries and immediate predecessors. Only one of Morgan’s rumoured treasures has been accounted for. I’m certain this map leads to another because of the clues in the map’s legend, and I’m absolutely positive the original is the map Eckard was referring to.”

John glanced at the map again, puzzled. “What legend?”

“Getting to that.”

“So this Eckard had the map, then?”

“Sadly for Eckard, no. He was hanged, but he’s said to have been heard shouting ‘Huck’ just before the drop. The local magistrate made no mention of any map or journal being handed over to the crown, nor was there any mention of who or what ‘Huck’ is. Nevertheless, the story of Huck’s treasure began to circulate shortly thereafter.” Sherlock handed John a book from the top of the pile near his right knee. “Fast forward twenty years. This is the translation of a journal kept by a French planter from Martinique by the name of Auguste de Gagnier. He was something of a local legend after he sold his plantation and pretty much everything else to pursue treasure hunting with a freed black whom he never named but instead referred to only as ‘L’Alsace’.”

“As in the place?”

“Just so.” Sherlock passed John a list of names. “And guess what happens to be one of the most common surnames in the Alsatian region?”

“You have to be kidding.”

“Perhaps, but I’m not.” The detective was fairly wriggling with delight now. “I believe this Huck had been a slave and most likely took up the opportunity to gain his freedom by joining Blackbeard’s crew. He managed to escape capture with the map when his captain was killed and intended to seek the treasure himself. But he needed capital. How he met the Frenchman I don’t know, though I can speculate that Huck fled to Martinique because of its Code Noir—freed blacks held the same rights as Frenchmen.” Sherlock stood suddenly and began to pace. “De Gagnier was enticed to pursue the treasure, so much so that he liquidated his assets to finance their search. But, in a twist neither man could have predicted, their expedition was caught in a hurricane. The two men somehow survived and washed up on a small, uninhabited spit of land where they were stranded for the better part of a year.”

“Oh, pull the other one.”

Sherlock’s brows knit together.

“A white bloke and his black friend, trapped on a deserted island…?” John waited for some sign of recognition. “So no _Robinson Crusoe_ either?”

“Oh, that.” He waved a hand. “This was years after Defoe’s novel. Truth _is_ stranger than fiction, my dear.”

“If you say so.”

“Following their rescue by a British Navy vessel—for whose service Huck was unfortunately pressed—de Gagnier was returned to Martinique. He was penniless, so recounts selling ‘the only thing of value’ he had left. I believe he was referring to…”

“He kept the map? He let them press his mate, and he kept the map?” John shook his head. “Bastard.”

Sherlock paused behind the settee where John lay with his head resting on his fisted hand. Long fingers carded tenderly through John’s hair. “Quite.”

John closed his eyes and leaned into the caress. “So the Frenchman sells the map to…who? Do we know?”

“Obviously.” The magic fingers disappeared, much to John’s disappointment. Sherlock reappeared in front of him and dropped to the floor once more to rifle through a stack of copied documents. He handed a small selection to John. “Now it took some piecing together from Martinique folklore and such, but I believe the map was purchased by a local Huguenot named Charbonnier—one of the few to remain after the Edict of Revocation…don’t worry about that bit. Isn’t important. Suffice it to say that he was a very religious man, and by all accounts unmotivated by more mercenary concerns. I believe he bought the map purely as a charitable gesture toward the impoverished de Gagnier and that he kept it not because of what the map might lead to but because of what the map had been drawn on.”

“This is going to be disturbing, isn’t it.”

“Human skin.”

John couldn’t help the revulsion that likely screwed up his face. “Really could have lived without knowing that.”

“Hmmm. I imagine Charbonnier was probably repelled by the thing, but felt some responsibility to preserve it because of the life taken to create it,” Sherlock mused. “On his death, he asked to speak to the local Catholic priest as he did not have access to clergy of his own faith.” Sherlock withdrew one of the documents from the pile. It was written in French with the translation in Sherlock’s hand beside it. “Father Francois’ record of their meeting includes ‘a strange bequest and plea for assistance in dispensing with an unholy relic.’ I believe Charbonnier asked the priest to take the map and see that it was given an appropriate burial.”

“But the priest took the map and…sold it? Traded it?”

“No, no. The priest was faithful to his promise.” Sherlock dug through the pile at his knee and retrieved his phone. He turned it to John revealing a photo of a churchyard and, in particular, a small, rough marker: _Une promesse tenue, pour un hérétique._ “The current incumbent—Father Claude—was quite happy to help me with my request.”

“Probably the most exciting thing he’s done in years,” John said. “Heretic, though? Not very nice.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Charbonnier was a good man, not a good _Catholic_.”

John rubbed his brow. He was starting to feel a little overwhelmed by the deluge of history and names. “Why don’t you just give me the abridged version from here. How do we get from Martinique to where we are now?”

Sherlock’s mouth turned down a little, but he rallied. Clearly he was about to share something very exciting. “The islanders of Belize have a legend—the Grey Lady. It is believed that Captain Morgan, during a sojourn through these parts, brought a woman with him and that he accused her of infidelity during the voyage. Supposedly, he made her walk the plank off St. George’s Caye, in a billowing, grey gossamer gown. Morgan had just made a spectacular haul from two Spanish frigates near Panama, after which he was not seen for more than three months until he appeared off the coast of Belize. He made stops on two of the cayes and that was when he was rumoured to have collected his mysterious—and ill-fated—grey lady.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t you see??” Sherlock paused. Finally John shook his head. “John!”

“Don’t do the look.”

Sherlock groaned in frustration. “John! Morgan and his woman?”

“What the hell does that have to do with this treasure map?” John threw one hand up in defeat. He had to have the edge bits first; he simply didn’t have Sherlock’s ability to put a puzzle together with random pieces.

“He made her walk the plank—accused her of infidelity and made her walk the plank.” Sherlock stood once more, swirling as he reached his point. “Her lover, John! What happened to her lover? It was understood that Morgan would have killed him, of course. But they had just completed something Morgan himself called ‘the grand enterprise’. And if he _had_ just buried a significant treasure, he would have needed to make a map.”

“So you think Morgan made his woman’s supposed lover into the parchment?” John made a face. “Come on. That’s a bit of a stretch, even for a pirate.”

“Technically, Morgan was a privateer not a pirate.”

John rolled his eyes. “What-the hell-ever he was—how can you possibly know that he turned a person into a _map_ and that map is the same one we are looking at right now?” He tugged at the corner of the photocopy on the floor.

“Hayes, in his search for the treasure, refers repeatedly to the ‘missing legend’.” He pointed to each of the corners on the map under John’s hand. “You see there is nothing to indicate what the symbols mean?”

“Soldier, Sherlock. I can bloody well read a map.”

Sherlock sighed. “Someone removed the legend, probably to make the map useless on its own.”

“Maybe it didn’t have one,” John ventured. “Maybe the symbols don’t mean anything.”

“This is not the original map, John. And I know that because I know of a legend which I believed no longer had a map.” Sherlock’s voice had picked up in volume and his speech had increased to a breathtaking pace.

John let the words sink in a moment before he shook his head. “The priest on Martinique?”

“Just so!” Sherlock dropped to his knees beside the settee, scrabbling for de Gagnier’s journal. “He must have taken a copy of Charbonnier’s map and handed it down. Eventually it ended up with the collector in Belize. But someone had already made certain the map itself would never be enough.”

“De Gagnier?”

Sherlock beamed as he opened the translated journal to the appropriate page and shoved it under John’s nose. “He had to sell it, but he just couldn’t part with the whole secret. He removed the corner of the map containing the legend and copied the details here.”

John studied the notes for a moment, shaking his head. “How did—but—”

Finally he gave up. He wrapped a hand behind his husband’s neck and dragged him in for a hard, possessive kiss. Sherlock fell forward, off balance, but righted himself quickly with a hand to the centre of John’s chest.

“Bloody amazing,” John said wonderingly as they parted. He stroked over a cheekbone with his thumb. “You are absolutely bloody amazing.”

Sherlock slid one hand into the gaping neck of John’s robe and dipped his head for another kiss. John enjoyed the softness of Sherlock’s mouth against his own and the unhurried caress of the man’s tongue.

Sherlock withdrew slightly. “Perhaps we should move this somewhere more comfortable.”

“Agreed,” John murmured. He stroked a hand over the spot where his dog tags lay against Sherlock’s chest. “I plan to take my time and I’m too old to spend that long on the floor.”

“ _How_ long?”

“Hours,” John muttered against Sherlock’s lips.

He was in the process of sitting up to direct them both to the comfort of their bedroom when their pseudo-doorbell sounded. The two men regarded each other for a moment before John jumped up and made his way to answer it. He opened the door to their butler’s smiling face.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson,” the larger man chirped. “I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing. Did you enjoy your breakfast?”

“We did, thanks,” John replied. “Eduardo brought everything before we were up—snuck in and out and we didn’t even hear him.”

“Good,” Elijah nodded. The hair on the back of John’s neck prickled as he realized that, once again, their butler appeared to be scanning the room over John’s shoulder. John turned to follow the young man’s gaze, which alighted very briefly on Sherlock and the large stack of documents with which he was still engrossed. Elijah’s eyes quickly snapped back to John. “Oh, and I understand you have chartered a boat for tomorrow.”

“We…”

“Yes!” Sherlock interjected from across the room, not looking up.

“Apparently we have, yes,” John chuckled. “Anything we should know?”

“I just wanted to confirm that you are comfortable going without a guide. The sea can be unforgiving and the weather unpredictable.”

“It’s fine!” Sherlock barked. He looked up from his spot on the floor suddenly. His eyes narrowed as he assessed Elijah.

“Good, well, if we need anything or have any questions, we’ll ring, all right?” John moved to close the door before Sherlock could offer any deductions. Elijah looked as though he might object, but then quickly smiled and waved before turning to leave.

John closed the door and strolled back across the room to slide down to the floor beside Sherlock. “Tell me.”

“Law enforcement,” Sherlock said sharply, re-rolling one of the maps. “Possibly government agent.”

“Our butler is a spy.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “You don’t sound surprised.”

John smirked. “I’m not. I’ve met one or two spooks in my time.”

“Oh?”

“When Elijah was here yesterday, I couldn’t help the feeling that he was sweeping the room. Today, too.” John stretched out on his side and propped his head up on his hand. His free hand stroked over Sherlock’s thigh. “What do you suppose he wants?”

“I suppose he may be interested in what I ordered all this for,” Sherlock considered, waving at the box beside him. “Then again…” Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“What is it, love?”

“He may be keeping an eye on undesirable tourists,” Sherlock finished, looking a little defeated.

“Undesirable?” John smiled. “We do tend to get into trouble occasionally, I’ll grant you, but I would hardly call us that. Why would he…” John cut off as he took in Sherlock’s darkening expression. Realization dawned slowly. “Oh.”

John felt a little knot forming in his gut as he considered something he’d never before in his life had to think about.

“It’s not aggressively prosecuted,” Sherlock began.

“But it is illegal?” John’s fingers tightened over Sherlock’s leg. “I hadn’t even thought of that. Really hadn’t.”

“There is a rather vocal LGBT movement, and they are actively pursuing equal rights, however…”

“However, our honeymoon is still breaking the law,” John finished. “Is that why you pulled away from me yesterday, when Elijah came in? And I suppose that does explain the thing with the American bloke. I thought you were just taking the piss.”

“I chose the resort with care, John,” Sherlock offered. He reached across to run his fingers over John’s brow. “This place is listed by all the gay travel sites as ‘friendly’ and ‘welcoming’. All the reviewers said they felt quite safe here. I assumed since we wouldn’t really be spending any time on the mainland, and if we were discreet…”

John nodded, still feeling a bit ill at ease. They’d experienced some snide comments and sidelong looks at home, certainly, but he’d never thought he would experience becoming a felon because of who he loved. And he wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about it.

Sherlock seemed to understand his silence; he went ahead with packing up the box without a word. John watched his husband, marvelling at the dexterous and elegant hands as they sorted all of his precious research. Research to solve a two-hundred-odd-year-old puzzle…and fulfil a childhood fantasy.

John’s heart swelled. “Bugger.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow shot up.

“Literally,” John chuckled. He sat up and reached for his lover. His husband. His best friend. He tugged at the rolled collar of the complimentary robe until they were nose to nose. “If we’re going to follow in Oscar Wilde’s footsteps, then let’s make it worth the while, shall we?”

Sherlock dragged a finger over John’s freshly shaved cheek. “Am I about to be debauched?”

John kissed him. “Yes,” he murmured.

“Violated?” Sherlock wound his arms around John’s neck, fingers twisting into his hair. John could feel the breath and the erotic vibration of the man’s voice as he hissed into John’s ear, “Sodomissssssed?”

“God, yes,” John groaned as he dragged the man to the floor. He tugged at the belts of both robes, sighing with satisfaction as flesh made contact. He stretched out over Sherlock’s long body and began to rock as they kissed languidly.

Sherlock smirked as John’s fingers slipped under his robe and around toward his bottom. “Going to bum me, are you?”

“Only if you’re a very, very good boy,” John rasped. He dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of his husband’s throat.

“I’ll be a very good boy for you.”

“Yes, I’m sure you will,” John smirked. He continued his leisurely exploration of Sherlock’s freckles.

“But I thought we were after comfort this time.”

John mumbled something incoherent into Sherlock’s chest.

“Come along, Cap’n Jack,” Sherlock said softly. He pushed at John until he looked up. “I want to take you to bed.”

“When you put it that way…”

John rolled to his side and allowed Sherlock to get to his feet first. The taller man bent and offered his hand, tugging John up beside him.

John followed happily, occasionally squeezing Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock looked back at him with an expression of something like pleased longsuffering—probably lamenting his husband’s sentimental streak. A bit.

When they reached the bedroom, Sherlock turned. He released John and backed away, allowing his robe to slide to the floor.

“Now then, my dear,” he purred. “Where were we?”

John had his robe off before the final words left Sherlock’s mouth. John stepped forward and lovingly traced the whorls of hair around each nipple on his husband’s chest. He followed the touch with his mouth, lapping playfully at each peaked bud.

“’Bout here, I think,” he murmured.

Sherlock sighed into the top of John’s head.

“What do you want, love?”

“Hmmm?”

“It’s your turn,” John replied patiently, his hands finding their way to the taller man’s bottom. “What do _you_ want?”

Sherlock became very quiet; John checked on him quickly.

“All right?”

“Yes, but…”

“Sherlock, this is not a life or death question. It’s okay if you’re not sure.”

Sherlock looked away to a fixed point somewhere over John’s head.

“You’ve never had to ask me before,” the detective said softly.

“Oh, my love—this is not because I don’t know what you like. I just want to let you choose the manner in which I will attempt to please you. Just like you did for me earlier.”

“But you always please me.”

“Ha! Sorry, but I have to call you on that one,” John chuckled, kissing his husband softly. “Remember that night in Scotland?”

“I was distracted.”

“And what about the train lav, on the way back from Geneva? Couldn’t get you anywhere near an orgasm that day, and I came all over my shoes.”

“I was cold.”

John was rubbing both of the man’s upper arms soothingly. “I know. And it’s fine. But today I don’t want any margin for error,” John said firmly. “I want to make you insensible with lust.”

Sherlock’s lovely lips had parted; he was staring at John exactly the way a naked detective _should_ look at the love of his life. “I—”

John nibbled at his clavicle. “Yes, love.”

“I want you to rim me.”

John nodded his agreement. “And?”

“My favourite.”

John beamed. “An excellent choice,” he replied confidently. Sherlock ducked his head for another breathless snog, dragging John toward the bed.

“I’m very clean, John,” Sherlock panted, kneeling on the bed and dragging John after him. “I made sure…”

“Just in case,” John finished, amused. _God,_ w _e really are meant for each other._ He slanted his mouth over his husband’s and pulled them tightly together from shoulders to knees.

Sherlock moaned into his mouth as john’s fingers parted his cheeks and began massaging his pucker.

“I’m going to make you sob,” John promised huskily.

Sherlock clung to his shoulders. “Oh, oh, oh, yes. Please.”

With one more greedy kiss, Sherlock withdrew. He spun and dropped onto his belly in one graceful movement, quickly rucking his knees up and out until they very nearly reached his shoulders. John rubbed at the small of Sherlock’s back as he slid to his tummy in the place that had been made for him. He nipped at the plump globes of his husband’s arse before teasingly dragging his tongue across Sherlock’s exposed hole.

John felt the shudder ripple through Sherlock’s body. He dug his fingers into one buttock and began to knead. Sherlock’s body contracted and John dipped his head once more and placed a chaste kiss right over the twitching muscle.

“Damn it, John!”

The doctor snickered a little. He laved the tender flesh and flicked his tongue over the soft folds.

Sherlock moaned into his pillow, fists balled up on either side of his head.

John proceeded in earnest, licking and sucking and thoroughly saturating Sherlock’s entrance. His husband was breathing in short huffs, rocking into each stroke. John pointed his tongue and pushed it gently through the tight ring of muscle.

“YES! Oh, god…”

John continued tongue-fucking Sherlock as he eased his hand beneath the man to fondle his softly furred bollocks. He rolled the sac between his thumb and fingers, alternating his caresses with his oral invasion.

The lovely sucking noises in the room coupled with Sherlock’s sounds of desperation were quite heady. John lost track of time, but eventually felt his cock beginning to drip as he continued lapping at Sherlock’s hole.

Finally, he pulled away only long enough to ask, “Now, love?”

Sherlock nodded, breath catching as he tried to reply.

John pulled himself up, rubbing the man’s thigh soothingly. “Shhhhh. It’s all right, love. I know what you want.”

John began rearranging limbs, tugging Sherlock’s long legs back down to extend straight down behind him—thighs parted only slightly. He raised himself up and then lay down to cover Sherlock’s lower body with his own as he lined himself up with the very inviting cleft of his husband’s bottom.

John reached for the bottle of lube he’d returned to the table on Sherlock’s side of the bed earlier. Sherlock’s fingers were clenching and unclenching in the bedclothes.

“Soon, love,” John promised, slicking his cock. He leaned in to press additional lubrication between his husband’s cheeks, slippery fingers finding and further stretching the dampened and somewhat loosened hole.

Sherlock’s eyes rolled back and his lids fluttered closed. John felt a rush of triumph, as he knew the keen mind was about to go offline. At least for a while.

John removed his hand and used it grasp himself firmly. He stroked the head of his throbbing cock over the seam of Sherlock’s arse before allowing it to pop in. He sank in gratefully, pushing through the gentle resistance and finding his way into the welcoming heat of Sherlock’s body.

“Oh, fuck,” John breathed. “You feel so good, love. So good.”

When he was fully seated, his sac nudged firmly against Sherlock’s bum, John laid himself down to completely cover his husband’s upper body. He pressed his cheek into Sherlock’s shoulder and reached out to clasp both Sherlock’s hands against the bed. He interlaced their fingers as he began to move.

Sherlock was already keening.

John suspected it had to do with the feeling of being completely taken over—overwhelmed, controlled and pinned down. But whatever the reason, John had quickly discovered that while Sherlock enjoyed many things in bed, this was his very favourite. It never failed to reduce the brilliant man to a pliant and incoherent wreck. And very often resulted in him coming without either of them touching his cock.

John moaned as Sherlock clenched, tightening the already snug entrance created by their position. John rolled his hips and thrust hard, his lower belly sticking a little as they both began to sweat in the tropical heat.

“More…”

John hummed his agreement into Sherlock’s neck as he established a rhythm. He allowed himself to drown in the sensations of his husband’s heat surrounding him, and the smell of the man’s expensive shampoo, and the feel of Sherlock’s long, muscular back against his chest.

It always took John a little longer to come in this position, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t mind.

Thrust after thrust, with small adjustments now and again to tease across Sherlock’s prostate, they moved together. After what seemed like hours, Sherlock began to grind down into the bed with each stroke. He had long since lost the use of words, and was now begging with broken sobs and tugs on their joined hands. John summoned his energy for one last rally, knowing that his own release also close. He sped up the pace and began to pound into the man beneath him.

“My. Brilliant. Beautiful. Genius.” John managed between thrusts. He tightened his own fingers around Sherlock’s as his balls began to draw up.

Sherlock began to shake beneath him then bucked hard into John’s body as he came all over the bed. He gasped and clutched at their joined hands.

“Oh, god, I love you…love you so much,” John moaned as Sherlock’s body clenched around him and pushed him over the edge.

John lay, spent, on top of Sherlock until the feeling began to return to his legs. Finally, he withdrew and rolled off onto his back. Sherlock immediately turned and buried his face in John’s chest. Arms and legs twined together and the detective hummed happily into John’s skin as they both began to recover.

“Worth jail time?” John muttered sleepily.

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Finally got this chapter wrangled--apologies for the delay. Next one should be up next weekend...just as soon as I figure out what the legend says ;) Oh, and as a tease for the person who asked if Mycroft would ever find someone: good things will happen before the end!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry--this is so delayed :( And I tried to post it earlier and added it to the wrong fic. (Oy!) Mea culpa. One full chapter tonight and one tomorrow!


	8. Ahoy, maties!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John take to the high seas in search of their pirate treasure.

“John!”

“Yeah, all right. Just coming!” the doctor called back. He hurried to reach the dock, where Sherlock was watching their chartered boat just beyond the shallow waters surrounding their tiny island paradise.

John had spent the morning collecting everything he thought might be needed for their adventure: sunscreen, hats, sunglasses, any non-perishable food items from their kitchen and every bottle of water from the refrigerator.

He had been worried about finding something in his bag that would be appropriate to wear on a jungle trek, but found to his surprise that his sister had included his camo pants and his boots, as well as his pocket knife. Sherlock, likewise, had brought a pair of khaki trousers and some heavy-duty hiking shoes.

They were not professionally equipped by any means, but it would do.

He reached the end of the dock, throwing his bag over his shoulder. He glanced at the small dinghy headed toward the dock and then turned his attention to the boat that would be their transport for the day.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

“That’s a sailboat.”

“Problem?”

“You know how to sail.”

“Of course not. I thought I’d let you pilot the craft.”

“Prat.”

Sherlock smirked at him before turning back to the water. “Would you believe me if I said I booked it because it was romantic?”

“Would you be offended if I said I wouldn’t, really? Although I’m sure I did enter into your thinking somewhere.”

“Of course.” Sherlock allowed his fingers to drift over John’s back. “Sailboats are more plentiful and easier to come by here, and catamarans are better for the skinny water of the Caribbean. As I am an experienced sailor, it means that I shall be doing the lion’s share of the work.”

“Very thoughtful,” John praised, leaning in for a sneaky kiss. “Thanks, love.” His brow furrowed. “Skinny water?”

“I’ll explain when we’re on board,” Sherlock assured him. “There will be some things for you to do, of course.”

“I’ve never been sailing, you know.”

“Not to worry. I have no objection to giving you orders.”

John snorted. “Oh, you don’t say.”

“Good morning!” The cheerful greeting came from the man in the dinghy — Cliff, himself.

Sherlock caught the line and helped pull the small boat close, allowing Cliff to step out. The older man nodded at Sherlock and shook John’s extended hand.

“Off for a little private exploring today?” he asked.

“We thought we might visit the Great Blue Hole,” Sherlock replied swiftly. “Or perhaps do some bird watching on Long Caye.”

“Well, now, that’s a bit of a trip, but everyone should see the Great Blue Hole,” Cliff agreed. “And you have a perfect day for it.”

“So really it’s safe for us to go out on our own?” John asked, eyeing the sailboat in the distance a little sceptically. “In that?”

Cliff’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, she is perfectly sea-worthy. One of the newest additions to our fleet. And of course your friend Mr. Holmes is fully qualified.”

Sherlock stepped gracefully into the dinghy; John was about to follow when they were interrupted by a chirpy voice.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson!” Elijah called, hustling down the dock toward them with one hand raised in greeting.

“Uh, good morning,” John called back.

“Cliff.” Elijah acknowledged the older man as he reached them. “I’m glad I caught you, Dr. Watson. I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed for today.”

“Yes, yeah, thanks.” John knew it sounded awkward as arse but he was finding it difficult to maintain his calm, knowing what he now did about their butler.

Elijah nodded thoughtfully. “You have enough water? And some food?”

“We have everything we require. No need to trouble yourself.”

John grimaced a little at his husband’s brusque reply.

“Does someone know where you will be? Just in case something should go wrong.” Elijah looked very serious for a moment before his features relaxed into the friendly expression of an attentive hospitality employee.

“They’re headed for the Great Blue Hole,” Cliff supplied. “The radio and GPS were checked just this morning.”

“There you are, then.” John tossed his bag onto the boat, trying to look as confident about Sherlock's skill as a sailor, and their sailboat, as Sherlock apparently was. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”

“Of course,” Elijah demurred. “Enjoy. Should I schedule a late supper?”

“That would be lovely, thanks.” John stepped down into their transfer craft. “Thanks, Cliff. Are you all right to get back, by the way?”

“Oh, yes. My son is coming by on his way to pick up some passengers for a diving excursion. Don’t worry about me.”

“John, pull in the line.”

John smiled at the two men before hurrying to follow his commander’s instructions.

Within minutes, they were climbing up onto the sleek catamaran via one of the sets of steps at the rear of each of the craft’s two hulls. It was all white, from the fibreglass body to the low-slung cabin to the sails. It was clean and clearly very new.

“This is…”

“Serviceable.” Sherlock threw his bag down on the deck near the controls.

“Posh, I was going to say,” John corrected. “We had the funds for this, did we?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”

“Who?”

“The — uh — the Fordyce case.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Mrs. Fordyce was very grateful for my assistance. She expressed a wish to supplement our fee, and I happened to mention to her that I was planning our little…vacation…and how much I wished to take you sailing…”

John was grinning from ear to ear, imagining Sherlock laying it on thick with the dear old woman whose nephew had been staging a haunting of their ancestral home. That sexy smile, perhaps with a shimmer of tears in the lovely eyes, as he described his desire to take John on a romantic honeymoon. “You are a bad, bad man.”

“For the best possible reasons. Consider it a wedding gift.”

John was already reaching for him. “God, I do love you.” He kissed the taller man hard and soundly, not at all surprised when Sherlock met him half way.

Sherlock sighed contentedly, his fingers twisted in the sleeve of John’s t-shirt. He teased his lips across John’s cheek. “We really need to crack on.”

“Let go of me, then,” John murmured. He caressed Sherlock’s hip.

There was a significant delay as Sherlock rested his cheek against John’s temple. Slowly, reluctantly, the two men parted. Sherlock nodded gently as he turned to the helm.

Shoving his own bag out of the way, John stretched and sat on the ledge near the wheel.

“No!”

John jumped back up to his feet. “What?”

“I told you: there are things for you to do,” Sherlock reminded him, busying himself with raising the anchor. “Since we can’t be two captains now we’re on board, I suppose that makes me…commodore. Come on, Cap’n Jack.”

John rolled his eyes. “Aye-aye, sir.”

“Mmm, yes. I do like the sound of that…”

When they were well underway — following much shouting of things like “jibe” and “tack” that John had not completely understood, but had managed to comply with after some pointing and just a few other colourful hand gestures (some on his part) — he stepped carefully to where Sherlock stood at the controls.

“So we didn’t quite get to the map’s legend last night,” he said casually. “I take it we’re not going to the Big Blue Pit, or whatever it is.”

“The Great Blue Hole,” Sherlock replied dryly. “Obviously not. Here take this.”

“What? No. I can’t — Sherlock I don’t know how to sail!”

“You’ve done fine so far.”

“But I don’t…”

“Just hold it steady and keep us on our current heading,” Sherlock replied, with surprising gentleness. He dropped a kiss to John’s forehead as John’s fingers brushed over his on the wheel. “I’ve already set our course.”

“So where are we going?”

Sherlock retrieved his small bag and pulled the map and the translated journal from it. “To a tiny island now known as Hiccough Caye.”

“Take me through it?” John asked.

Sherlock returned to his side, unrolling the photocopy of the treasure map from the Belize government’s archive. “The map appears to indicate the treasure is distributed across a group of three islands. Some of the symbols on the map are recognizable, but they offer no particular order or pattern. Nautical markings, some astronomical references, but none in logical places or seemingly in reference to anything. The rest of the symbols appear to be gibberish. Still, there was enough roughly illustrative topography included that it led previous explorers to the grouping of islands I showed you on the modern chart yesterday. But…”

Sherlock opened the journal and began to read. “For the ungodly man seeks yet may not find. A wise man understands the Word of the Lord, and so shall he be rewarded. The search for knowledge begins among the vines, and the labourers who gather there. For each man shall be rewarded equally, in accordance with his master’s covenant.”

“Right.”

“Sound familiar?”

John shrugged noncommittally. “Sounds a bit like Sunday School. Something from the Bible?”

“Just so. Although the first bit is just Captain Morgan laying his groundwork — bearing in mind that this would have sounded more antiquated in the original English…more like the King James translation of the Bible. So the ‘Word of the Lord.’ Word being capitalised…we’re meant to be looking to scripture for our clues.”

Sherlock shifted restlessly, clearly excited. John bit his lip to keep from saying anything about his husband’s enthusiasm and cleverness. Or from commenting on the way the wind had already tousled Sherlock’s dark curls. He’d promised to be a little less soppy today.

“The second bit refers us to a parable in Matthew: the tale of the master who hired labourers for his vineyard at different times of day yet, at the end of the day, paid them all the same even though some had worked several hours longer than the others. He had contracted with each of them for the same fee, and so he paid them all the same. The moral? ‘So the last shall be first, and the first last.’”

“And that means…?”

Sherlock huddled in against John’s back; his sea legs surprisingly steady (or, at least, much steadier than John’s). He held the journal over John’s shoulder so he could see the rest of the entries.

  1. Rare vae lamenta tui oficin omnin epulae inifig habit.
  2. Pactus accusabil monach usuran dolor errabund tabellah repente epitome late vae nuncup levamentu saevio navale.
  3. Illimitatus agri alph trench rotulare extol exulatus stalo novale nervici nigellare talare educamen arsin depositio nonae archon devisatio nobile.
  4. Erpic carnell exigendis iconomia suett estresius feodi viride oppidan e.
  5. Impedientes aeri alph trith infugar tey treach rechaciare evitaneus ix.
  6. Galliare nequare stalari summon increden escart eskaere nappa neotegeld thorale nept hidar emolare.



“They’re numbered,” John started. “So we take them in order? Is that…they look like Latin, but it’s utter rubbish. They’re not sentences and…some of them aren’t even real words.”

“It’s a kind of code. Hopelessly rudimentary, but probably enough to confound most pirates with limited reading and writing skills in their own mother tongue.” Sherlock wrapped his other arm around John to point at the paper. “See? Here. First, last…first, last. The first and last letter of every word.”

“Oh, right,” John flicked over the words. “So the first one is…r…e…v…e…l —Revelation?”

“Revelation 1:8,” Sherlock finished. “’I am the Alpha and the Omega,’ says the Lord God, ‘who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.’”

“Okay.”

“Beginning and ending. Could mean a variety of things, but when one considers the 17th century mariner’s reliance on the location of the sun for navigation…”

“Beginning and ending…of the day? Sunrise and sunset?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock agreed. He backed away from John slightly, leaning against the cabin wall nearby. “And, if we are thinking about directions, sunrise and sunset lead us to…”

“East and west,” John answered swiftly.

Sherlock reached for the map once more and held it up so John could see. He pointed to two small symbols, one toward the lower right centre of the map and one in the upper left corner.

“I believe these are meant to represent the sun — one light, one dark. They offer nothing useful on their own, particularly where they are placed, which is not in the traditional cartographic locations for the compass points. However with this clue, I think we can safely assume that these represent east and west.”

“Brilliant. Next?”

“Psalm 103:12: ‘…as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.’”

“And?”

“Something has been removed — the treasure from the Spanish — and hidden away. Captain Morgan’s transgression, if you will. But we are trying to _find_ it, so if we reverse this idea…”

“We bring east and west together. Oh my god, Sherlock.”

The detective swiftly moved to bring the two symbols together, folding the map accordingly and then folding the edge back from the lower symbol. John stared in wonder at the new image created.

“It’s —”

“Not three islands, but one,” Sherlock sounded just a little smug, understandably.

“And that’s Hiccough Caye?”

“Ah, yes. Well, you see here, along the edge of the fold. The markings that appeared to be merely gibberish?”

“They’re numbers.”

“Precisely. For celestial navigation. Using some reference charts, I was able to determine the location of the island, which happens to coincide with a small spit of land known currently as Hiccough Caye.”

John considered this. “But how has no one else ever stumbled upon the treasure before. I mean, there are thousands of boats in this part of the world — locals, tourists, explorers. Surely someone would have spent enough time on Hiccough Caye to find Captain Morgan’s trove.”

“Perhaps, but there is still a chance it remains undisturbed. One: we know none of the previous documented searches were conducted in the right location. Two: according to the Belize weather authority, Hiccough Caye floods every time there is a hurricane and has no source of fresh water — entirely uninhabitable for any length of time. Three: it does not have a remarkable reef and is not known to have any marine life of particular interest.”

“Huh. Well, that sounds plausible enough. Worth a look, I suppose,” John turned his attention to the instruments for a moment. “How will we know where to look on the island once we’re there?”

Sherlock flipped the journal back open. “The map indicates a trail leading from the northern coast. The next clues provide more detail: Isaiah 2:20-21 – ‘In that day people will throw away to the moles and bats their idols of silver and idols of gold, which they made to worship. They will flee to caverns in the rocks and to the overhanging crags from the fearful presence of the Lord and the splendour of his majesty, when he rises to shake the earth.’ And then Ecclesiastes 5:1 – ‘Guard your steps when you go to the house of God. Go near to listen rather than to offer the sacrifice of fools, who do not know that they do wrong.’”

“Sorry?”

“’Guard your steps,’” Sherlock repeated. “Booby traps, no doubt.”

“Really?”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Hmmm,” John answered, unconvinced. “So what else? It’s in a cave or something and it’s booby-trapped. And?”

“Isaiah 33:6 – ‘He will be the sure foundation for your times, a rich store of salvation and wisdom and knowledge; the fear of the Lord is the key to this treasure.’ And last, curiously enough, is Genesis 29:3 – ‘When all the flocks were gathered there, the shepherds would roll the stone away from the well’s mouth and water the sheep. Then they would return the stone to its place over the mouth of the well.’”

“We need a key? For the big stone over the door?”

“Don’t know yet, but we’ll find out,” Sherlock said. He slapped the journal shut and tucked it back in his bag. “There are bottles of water in the refrigerator below. Would you like one?”

“Yeah, go on,” John chuckled. He watched as Sherlock bounded down the steps into the cabin. “Just hurry back! I have no idea what to do with this thing when we get there!”

_______________________________

Roughly ninety minutes later, John was once more relegated to the duties of deck hand as Sherlock skilfully brought them in close to the northern shore of Hiccough Caye. The sails were dropped and the engine used to seat the anchor.

John assisted with deploying the dinghy and set about gathering up their supplies, and in short order they were closing in on their destination.

As they neared the caye, John began removing his boots…and his socks. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him. He glanced at the man briefly.

“I’m not just taking them off for the sake of it. You know we’ll have to wade in,” he muttered defensively, tying the laces of his boots together and swinging them around his neck. He rolled his pant legs up. “And I do not intend to squelch around in wet footwear for the rest of the day.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know.”

Sherlock smirked a little.

“Just leave it.”

“Of course, my dear.”

When he felt the nose of the boat drift against the sandy bottom, John jumped out and grabbed the line.

“Come on, then _commodore_ ,” he called back over his shoulder. He readjusted his bag where it lay against his back as he sloshed through the shallow surf.

He heard Sherlock hit the water behind him and soon enough they had the dinghy dragged far enough up on to the somewhat rocky shore to avoid the tide. John tied it to the nearest tree, just for good measure.

He was seated comfortably, feet dry and brushed free of sand, when Sherlock finally dropped to his knees beside him and dropped something in John’s lap.

“It’s hot.”

“Tropics, love. Supposed to be. What’s this?” He opened the small nylon bag the man had brought with him, in addition to his own small bag with the map and journal.

“Rope from the boat,” Sherlock sighed. “Thought it might come in handy.”

“Certainly could do,” John agreed.

John finished retying his boots while Sherlock spun to drop onto his back, knees bent and feet planted in the sand. He threw one arm over his brow to shield his eyes. John turned and reached for one long foot.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock lifted his head.

“Helping.” John grinned as he brushed off his husband’s rapidly drying feet. He rubbed and massaged a little as he did, enjoying the feel of Sherlock’s bony toes.

“Don’t tickle, John,” Sherlock whinged, tugging his foot free.

“Please yourself,” John chuckled. “Just do me a favour and tuck your pant legs into your socks, yeah?”

“Mmmm…crawling things.”

“Yup. All kinds,” John affirmed. He jumped to his feet and straightened his sunglasses as he regarded the view away from the beach. Only a few feet ahead, the pebbly sand disappeared into a thick, tropical jungle. “I wish we had a machete.”

“I still wish we had your gun,” Sherlock mused, finally standing and dusting sand from his trousers. “We’ll just have to make do.”

“Right. Shall we?”

Sherlock nodded and drew his copy of the map from his bag.

John stared a bit helplessly at the mass of tropical plants surrounding the rock formation that he knew must be somewhere at the centre of the small island though they could not yet see it. It was a good reminder of how much he hated the jungle. If he had to choose — and he prayed he never had to again — he’d still take the desert, regardless of how hot (and bloody cold) it could be.

He followed as Sherlock navigated the landscape and led them into the dense underbrush. He couldn’t help a sentimental smile. As much of a Londoner as the man was, never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes was not an adventurer.

“Which way now?” John asked after a few minutes.

Sherlock regarded the view for a moment. “There.” He pointed to one side of the rocks which they could only just now make out. “Do you see it, John?”

“Yes I see it. What about it?” He squinted, taking a few steps forward. A hand grasped his bicep.

“Careful,” Sherlock said sharply. John shot him a quizzical look. “Booby traps,” he hissed.

“Oh, right. Of course,” John chuckled.

Sherlock huffed. “You aren’t taking this very seriously.”

“Sorry, love, but you must admit it’s pretty fantastical. What are the odds the treasure is still here, never mind some vine and coconut traps set by a bunch of drunken pirates three hundred years ago?”

“John!”

John ignored the warning and continued toward the outcropping Sherlock had indicated. He had taken only a half dozen steps when he felt his footing give way. It was only a matter of instinct that he caught himself before he was carried down through the overgrowth and into the pit that rustled open beneath him.

John scrambled back from the edge as more of the already wrecked wooden grid structure fell away, eroding his ledge. Sherlock landed on his knees behind him, an arm snaking around his chest to help drag him back. John pushed with his feet, shoving them both a safe distance from the precipice.

John panted, adrenaline pumping hard through his system. “Shit!”

“Believe me now?” Sherlock peered over his shoulder. “It was already tripped; wildlife, perhaps. The vegetation filled in to give the illusion of a solid surface.”

John nodded dumbly, shifting his weight so he could peer back over the edge of the pit. He surveyed the dark expanse below, and the sharpened stakes that had been fixed — pointing up — at the bottom. He was barely able to make out what had caused the structure to collapse in the first place. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Sherlock leaned over with him. He cocked his head as he looked at the twisted skeleton at the bottom. “Ah. So someone else did find this place.”

“Who do you suppose it was?”

Sherlock shrugged, easing toward the edge. “I’ll just climb down and….”

“You will like hell!”

Sherlock blinked at him for a moment.

“You are not going down there. We don’t know what else is rigged up. There could be snakes — just, no.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked back down at the pit. He was very clearly trying not to look chuffed. “But there may be an important clue down there.”

“How important could it be? Clearly this one didn’t find the treasure!” John waved an arm in the general direction of their bony friend.

“If I promise to be very careful…”

“No.”

“You could lower me down. At the first sign of trouble you could bring me straight back up.”

“No.”

“Please.”

John scowled and crossed his arms. “I’ll go.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. That won’t do.”

“Sherlock, I’ve done things like this before, remember?”

“Yes, and so have I. But of the two of us, _you_ are the only one capable of treating a snakebite or other serious injury. If anything happened to you…”

“It won’t.”

Sherlock softened ever so slightly. “John, you have to trust me. The best way for you to protect me right now is to lower me down into that pit.”

John pursed his lips, grudgingly aware of the logic of the argument. As much as he hated it.

“You will be very, very careful.”

“Of course I will,” Sherlock agreed.

“And you’ll shout to come up if you see anything dangerous.”

“Naturally.”

The taller man was already standing and tugging the bag from John’s shoulders. “Didn’t I tell you the rope from the boat would come in handy?”

John sighed as he stood. He took the rope from Sherlock and began to unwind it.

Ten minutes later, with the rope levered around a tree, John was easing Sherlock down.

“MORE!”

John held fast and took several measured steps forward, having secured the rope around his waist to avoid any slips.

“A LITTLE MORE!”

A few more steps and John could hear a gratified noise echoing up from his husband’s location.

“GOOD!”

“Be careful!” John shouted back, planting his feet and bracing against the tugging as Sherlock moved about at the end of the rope.

Things grew quiet suddenly. John’s heart rate quickened. “Sherlock??!!!”

“FINE! I’M FINE!” the man called back. “I’VE ALMOST…THERE!” The rope tugged at John’s middle for several minutes. Just as John was beginning to worry, his husband’s voice reached him once more. “OKAY, BRING ME UP!”

When they were finally seated on the mossy, sandy ground side by side, Sherlock pulled something from his shirt pocket.

“Look!” He was beaming as he thrust the small object under John’s nose.

“Okay,” John grinned. “It’s a…gold tooth?”

“Yes! Do you see? De Gagnier described his partner, Huck — L’Alsace — as a ‘fine specimen of a negro with one fine gold tooth.’”

“I suppose other pirates might have had gold teeth, though.”

Sherlock made a face. “Other pirates who knew to be looking for treasure on this island? In this exact location?” Sherlock twiddled the rough lump of precious metal between his fingers. “He must have escaped the navy somehow. And he must have had the map AND the legend memorized.”

“So now we know what happened to Huck,” John said evenly.

“Hmmm. I’m sure the Belizean authorities will send a team of specialists in once we’ve informed them of our find. They should be able to confirm the gender, ethnicity, age and date of the remains.” Sherlock shook his head. “Well, then. One down. Well done, my dear, discovering that particular trap for us. Shall we?”

Sherlock stood and reached down to help John up. When they were both on their feet the taller man planted a quick, distracted and very happy kiss to John’s forehead. He was humming to himself as he continued on toward the rocks ahead of them.

John followed cautiously, this time paying very close attention to his surroundings in a way he hadn’t since being in a war zone. “I don’t suppose you found anything else down there — something that will help us avoid a painful death.”

“Just this,” Sherlock called back over his shoulder. He lifted his hand to display a blackened piece of metal.

“What is it?”

“I think, perhaps, it might just be a key,” Sherlock replied. “If Huck protected it long enough to get it here, it must be significant.”

“So now we have to figure out what it opens,” John muttered.

They had reached the base of the rocks when John spotted it. This time before Sherlock did.

John dove forward, tackling his husband and knocking the wind from them both. He flattened them to the ground and tucked his head in over Sherlock’s shoulder as the log loosed by the trip switch Sherlock had just disturbed with his foot slammed into the rock ledge above them with a thunderous crack.

They lay in silence for a moment as the large section of tree trunk rolled away and thumped to a stop nearby. John tilted his head at last, eyeballing the second device designed to keep poachers from Captain Morgan’s treasure. He glanced down at Sherlock, now turned to look up over his shoulder at their narrow escape. Their eyes met.

“I take it back,” John said a little breathlessly.

“How’s that?”

“Maybe the pirates weren’t that drunk after all,” John chuckled. He rolled to the side and shoved up onto his feet. He reached down for his husband.

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock agreed soberly.

As they began to scale the small shelf of rocks, Sherlock adjusted his path several times as he noticed possible triggers for additional booby traps. John was careful to tread exactly in the man’s footsteps.

Finally, they reached the plateau.

“Now we just need to find the ‘stone’ to roll away,” John offered, stretching out his shoulder.

“Hmmmm.” Sherlock prowled the perimeter of the rock face, looking for obvious signs. “Wait! Here.”

John hurried to where Sherlock had stopped. “But…is that a door?”

Sherlock ran a hand along the edge of a split in the rocks that began near the apex of the rock formation and extended down to the ledge beneath their feet, where the gap appeared to have been piled with rocks to disguise it.

“This may not be _our_ door, but it will get us in,” Sherlock began. He pulled a torch from his bag and waggled it at John as he passed him. “Brought it from the boat.”

Sherlock slithered through the narrow entrance, instantly disappearing into the dark.

“Sherlock!” John shoved his good shoulder into the breach in an effort to follow. “Damn it! Wait for me, would you!”

There was an annoyed noise and the detective returned. “Well, come on, then!”

“I’m just — give me a minute!” John struggled to wedge himself into the cave, his slightly fuller frame hitching on the rocks.

Sherlock surveyed the cave’s door, which clearly had been piled with boulders to help conceal its existence. He tugged a few of the smaller rocks toward himself, grunting with satisfaction as they tumbled in at his feet. John huffed, inching forward slightly. Sherlock knocked at one near John’s ribs, inadvertently squashing him in the process.

“OW — bloody hell!”

“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered. He handed John the torch and continued to shove at the rubble that had been wedged firmly into the tight space, finally dislodging three or four more of them. He tugged at John’s arm, succeeding in helping the doctor pull his upper body through the opening in the rock. John lifted his left leg as Sherlock had done and stepped over the ledge at the bottom to enter the cave. He turned with torch in hand, attempting to get a feel for the dank space.

Sherlock was turning, too, a look of unbridled glee on his face as he was caught in the torch beam. John chuckled a little, rubbing quickly over the fresh bruise on his side.

“Not bored?” he asked, getting close enough to pat the man’s bonny bum.

“Not in the slightest,” Sherlock concurred, his eyes bright. He spun back to the far wall of the cave. “But where is the opening Morgan made — oh, of course. There. Do you see it?”

John peered at the rocks, following Sherlock’s fingers with the light. “See wha — no, sorry, I…”

“Just there, down this side.” Sherlock traced the area with his finger, drawing John’s attention to well-hidden change in the texture of the wall surface. It was… “A cleverly concealed doorway. Wood, though — it must be covered over with vegetation on the other side. How does it open…” He was scouring the walls looking for some evidence of the means to do so when he hesitated. “This must be the entrance Morgan used, but it hasn’t been disturbed.”

“So we…did we just come through a new door to this cave? Someone else _has_ been here.”

Sherlock returned to the narrow crevice they had just crawled through. “The top looks quite natural. It could have been caused by an earthquake, erosion or… ah!” He dragged John closer to observe what looked like scratch marks in the surface of the rocks nearer the centre of the opening.

“Man-made tools?” John suggested.

Sherlock looked gratified as he nodded. “An existing seam must have split over time…” He dropped to a crouch and pawed at a patch of sand near the entrance, uncovering the rest of what looked like… “Part of a broken barrel.” He lifted it to his nose and sniffed it repeatedly. He looked up at John with a smirk. “Rum. I’m certain of it.”

“Yeah, well, that would make sense. I’m pretty sure pirates would have been fond of the stuff.” John shrugged. “I am too, provided it’s mixed into whatever cocktail that was Eduardo brought for us our first night. The one with the guava in it.”

“Focus, please.”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t think the barrel is from Morgan’s men. His people would have used the existing entrance. Rumrunners must have come across this island some time later. They must have approached via the southern beach — much more hospitable — and eventually found the rocks; getting closer they would have found this fissure." Sherlock stood and turned to take in the space. "A cool, dark cavern would be an ideal location for the storage of spirits. Undoubtedly they widened the existing crack to provide access for their barrels and then packed it with rock on departure to prevent discovery.”

“Undoubtedly.” John surveyed the now empty cave. He chuckled. “’But why is the rum gone?’”

Sherlock cast him a quizzical look. “Well, I assume they came to retrieve it at some point…”

“No, it’s…from the movie? You know, Cap’n Jack: ‘But why is the rum gone?’” John attempted his best Johnny Depp and waited. Sherlock’s expression did not betray any sign of recognition. “Right. Never mind.”

Sherlock huffed and turned his back. He prowled the perimeter of the cave, dextrous fingers skimming over the surface of the damp rocks.

“What are you looking for, love?”

“There has to be something here. A doorway, a passage to another chamber. There has to be more. A stone to be rolled away, remember?”

John steeled himself against the possibility of a very disappointed Sherlock. “I think we may have to face facts: whoever came for the rum probably found the rest as well.’

Sherlock rounded on him, cheeks a little flushed. “But they can’t have!” he insisted. He jerked the blackened piece of metal he’d retrieved from Huck from the breast pocket of his shirt. “They couldn’t have found anything more than a convenient empty cavern, not without the key!”

“But if time and weather can open a new entrance to this chamber, couldn’t the same be true of wherever Captain Morgan stored his loot? Maybe it had been revealed as well and they sealed it back up after they emptied it.”

Sherlock’s face fell, and John was instantly overwhelmed by a sense of guilt and the shared weight of disappointment. He stepped in close to his husband and laid gentle hands over the man’s ribs. He rubbed gently over Sherlock’s lean body as the man began to sag, just a little, in defeat.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Sherlock ignored him, his eyes bent on the dirt beneath their feet.

John tucked a curled finger beneath the man’s stubborn chin and tilted his face up until they were eye to eye. “We’ll keep searching,” he offered, unable to let the man down. “C’mon. You start over there and I’ll go this way.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “Yes. That’s good thinking. Thank you, John.”

“Anytime, love.”

John set about searching the stone walls for any sign of an opening. It was difficult — Sherlock now had their only torch and so there was no direct light. Still…

He started as his fingers bumped over the edge of something. “Sherlock? Sherlock bring the torch. I think I may have —”

He didn’t get to complete the sentence; Sherlock was already beside him. The man dropped to his knees at John’s feet, shoving the torch at John.

“What is it? Did you feel something? Where — OH! John, this has to be it. Point that — not at me! Here, at my hands!”

John complied and was instantly rewarded by… nothing.

“But it felt like an edge,” he protested weakly. “I swear it did.”

“No, John, it IS. Here!” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and ran it over the spot his own fingers had just been. “It’s an optical illusion. Just feel it. You can feel where the stone begins.”

“Wow, it is there, isn’t it? I can feel it. But…I still can’t see it at all. That is remarkable!” John glanced around then. “But how do we use the key thingie? Where would it go?”

Sherlock looked too, his movements a little frantic now. “I don’t see…not there…why would they…damn it!”

John ran his hands over the walls once more, hoping the lock was as much an illusion as the door. After several minutes, his hope began to fade.

And that’s when he saw it.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes. What.”

“Look down, love.”

“What?”

“’The fear of the Lord is the key to this treasure’, remember? Humility…down on your knees? I am telling you, this is Indiana Jones stuff, now.” John took a giddy breath. “Look. There on the floor.”

Sherlock slid back so he could see the small stone that had been set so discreetly in the rock floor. It was virtually undetectable but for being as close to it as they now were. At the centre of the stone was a carved-out space, one that looked quite organic and unassuming,

“It has to fit,” Sherlock said softly. He pulled Huck’s blackened bit of metal from his pocket and pressed it over the stone. After some minor adjustments, the ‘key’ slipped into place.

“Shit!” John jumped back at the loud squeak of wooden gears — long neglected — ground together. He grabbed at Sherlock and pulled the man to his feet and to a safe distance.

Dust drifted down from overhead as something very large snapped and groaned and…moved.

The door moved.

The two men stood frozen, clutching at each other’s hands, as the great slab of stone began to roll away.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” John muttered. “Sherlock, I can’t believe this is real!”

“Fantastic!” Sherlock roared. He leapt forward as soon as the door was out of the way.

The antechamber was not tall, but extended back some distance. The space fairly glittered as John trailed behind Sherlock and allowed the torch to roam over the contents: huge wooden chests — dozens of them — filled to overflowing with gold coins.

John was too stunned to keep his feet. He sank to his knees, still shaking his head.

“Unbelievable.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock turned to face him and pulled him up. “This is the logical conclusion of some excellent detective work.”

“Things like this don’t happen to real people. They don’t.”

“John.”

“This is…brilliant!” John gushed, waving an arm at the booty before them. Sherlock was looking back at the door over his shoulder. “My, god, what are you… _look_ at this! Seriously, Sherlock. Look! Do you know what this means? You are going to be famous for this — you found a treasure no one knew existed!”

“John!” Sherlock growled from between gritted teeth.

“I know you hate the press and everything, but you’re going to have to be prepared for some publicity. What if they name the collection, or a wing at the museum, after you?”

“JOHN!”

“Hmmm?”

“Pirates,” Sherlock hissed.

“WHAT? Sherlock…”

“Greetings!” a strange voice called from behind him. “Sorry to intrude, but my friends and I are very interested in what you’ve got there.”

John froze at the sound of a weapon.

He turned slowly, his hands automatically moving to the back of his head. Funny how the stony discipline of years in combat surfaced even after such a long time. Sherlock followed suit, not looking away from the man now holding them hostage.

For the first time, John wished his darling detective was wrong. But he wasn’t.

Pirates. REAL pirates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, my lovelies! I am a bad fic mistress to leave you hanging for so long, but we are nearing the end. Tomorrow I will post the finale! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay--I meant to post the last chapters last night and literally fell asleep on my computer. But here it is!


	10. Frying pans and fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> REAL pirates--what to do? John has a plan. Unfortunately, so does Sherlock.

John sized up their captors: the apparent leader was fairly young — perhaps in his late twenties. He was closer to John’s height than Sherlock’s, but leaner. He was dark-haired and darker-skinned, but John couldn’t place the accent. It didn’t sound like anything they’d encountered in Belize thus far, though that wasn’t saying much.

Behind the young man were at least four others, representing a broad range of ages and ethnicities. And sizes. They were dressed casually (and somewhat disarmingly) in beachwear; John supposed this was a convenient means of travelling throughout the Caribbean without raising alarm.

“Pirates, eh?” the young man said. “I suppose that’s what the newspapers call us. Though I prefer to think of us as independent acquisitions specialists. At least that’s what I tell my mother.” He hesitated. “I understand that you have been looking for lost pirate treasure. Is that right?”

Both John and Sherlock were silent. An older man with a shaved and tattooed head, standing directly behind the leader, raised a semi-automatic and aimed it at Sherlock.

John bit down on the instinctive shout that threatened to escape. He watched his husband very carefully, reassured by the man’s calm demeanour.

“I admit I was very surprised when the kid told me what it was you were up to. I thought he was full of shit.”

“The kid?” John repeated.

“Eduardo,” Sherlock said quickly. “Obvious. He has been watching the guests at the resort. He chose the most likely targets and let you know when they would be most vulnerable.”

“We’ve already had our one good catch from Cayo Espara and we were planning to move on to another resort to avoid suspicion, but then Eduardo told us about your maps and your books…” He peered around them into the cave beyond. “I see now that he was telling the truth.”

The man circled around them to squat in front of the first chest. He dipped his hand into the pile of coins and lifted it, allowing the gold to pour back down through his fingers.

John could hear a cracking noise — the splintering of wood — from the outer cave; they were opening Captain Morgan’s original door.

“Real pirate treasure.” He shook his head as he stood. He faced John with a ‘tsk.’ “Now I almost feel bad about having the boys shoot Eduardo this morning.”

John’s mouth went dry; he swallowed reflexively.

“Interesting accent,” Sherlock remarked, clearly still digesting every fragment of evidence on the man’s person. “Panama and…Texas?”

“Very good,” the young man chuckled. “Bachelor’s degree in music, University of Houston. I spent two years playing with a band on a cruise ship before I realized I was never going to make it.”

“And you thought this looked like the more attractive option,” John said. “Hurting people, stealing from them.”

“I can tell you: it pays much, much better,” the young man replied blandly. “Now, down to business. I’m Jorge, by the way. Pleasure to meet you. You will have to forgive me — Eduardo didn’t get as far as describing you, so which one of you is Holmes and which one is Watson? Wait, no. On second thought, let me guess.” He pulled the short, well-groomed beard covering his chin as he sidled up to John. “You don’t strike me as a doctor. Far too angry. And military, yes? So you must be Holmes.”

John stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with the thug. He’d met plenty of Jorge’s kind before.

“No? Well, well. A cross little soldier with a medical degree.” Jorge pulled a face and moved until he was right in front of John’s face, giving John no option but to look at him. John’s lips were now little more than a taut, white line as Jorge searched his face. The pirate’s lip curled. “So you trained to put people back together, but you thought shooting them looked like the more attractive option?”

“How did you track the boats?” Sherlock interrupted, almost immediately answering his own question. “Of course…stupid. Someone at Cliff’s.”

John watched as Jorge turned to Sherlock with surprise. “Ah! You are a clever man, Mr. Holmes. Yes, yes. Cliff’s is the largest charter company in the area. Have you met Cliff, Jr.?”

The pirate smiled, revealing perfect, pearly white teeth.

“He has a nasty cocaine habit. And working for his father certainly isn’t going to pay for it. No, he places a tracking device in the boats for us when they go out.” The man shrugged, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his brightly coloured shorts. “It is an old tale, señor. Hardly worth telling.”

He whistled sharply and several more men, younger and unarmed, appeared in the doorway.

Jorge gestured to the chests and rattled off instructions in Spanish. John and Sherlock watched the activity as one of the young men slammed and latched the lid of the nearest chest. He gestured for one of the others to help.

With one positioned in front of and one behind the chest, the two young men levered the chest up and shuffled it toward the door. Two of the others scrabbled around on the dusty rock floor, thrusting the loose coins into burlap sacks.

“Why don’t you join me outside while the boys clean up here? Keep your hands where they are.”

Jorge stepped aside and nodded for his henchmen to do likewise. Weapons still raised, they allowed John and Sherlock to move back into the first cave ahead of them.

John counted as they marched: four men with Jorge, two moving the chests, two in the inner chamber…and he could hear at least two others outside the cave.

The pirates had, indeed, opened the original, much larger door made by Captain Morgan and his crew as an entrance to the caves. One small stroke of good luck.

John met Sherlock’s gaze, hoping for a signal. They had no hope of overpowering the pirates, but there was no other option but to try. Jorge would kill them regardless.

Even if Sherlock alone escaped, that would be enough.

John could tell by the look on his husband’s face that the man knew exactly what he was thinking. The scowl and the subtle shake of his head made John smile.

Sherlock flicked his eyes to the bald man and then to John. John dropped his chin in agreement.

“Are you planning to kill us here?” John asked coldly.

“I could,” Jorge acknowledged. “But I would rather lead away from this place, you know?”

He nodded as the two young men who had been gathering loose coins exited the inner cave and passed him on their way outside with the full sacks. One of the four armed men moved to follow them — accompanying them to their boat?

“I don’t need Cliff’s cat, so I think I will sink it somewhere far from here, where it will be found. With you two on board, of course.”

The two armed men standing behind Sherlock and John were in a perfect position.

“I don’t suppose there is any point telling you people will come looking for us,” Sherlock remarked, managing to sound bored. “And for you.”

“None at all. By the time anyone knows you are missing, you will have been dead for hours. And many people are looking for me; so far no one has found me. In fact, there really isn’t any point in you two waiting around here while we move the gold. Jaffar, take them dow —”

Jorge was cut off as Sherlock’s fist caught his diaphragm. The detective had launched himself at the pirate, easily catching him off guard.

Jorge collapsed in front of the man with the tattooed head, throwing the man’s weapon off balance.

John was too busy to watch, however, as he drove his boot down into the foot of one the men behind him — certainly breaking it — and smashed the back of his head into the nose of the other with a satisfying crunch. He had his knife out and was plunging it deep into the thigh of the first man before either could recover.

The screaming drew attention; John could hear the men outside shouting and running toward the cave.

“Sherlock! We have to go! NOW!”

The taller man had subdued his opponent and was now grappling with Jorge.

“LEAVE HIM!”

Sherlock hit the younger man once more before dropping him. John picked up a stray handgun and moved toward the narrow fissure they’d first used to enter the cave, Sherlock right behind him. John glanced out, weapon raised, and was about to slip through the opening when…

“Shit!”

A hail of gunfire shattered against the rock wall above his head. He fell back, pushing Sherlock further behind him. He assessed the bigger door the pirates had opened; he could just make out one of the pirates making his way along the ledge.

“We’re trapped!” he panted. “It’s no use. Eventually the others will return from the beach…”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘No.’ Sherlock what are you…”

John was pushed off balance by the weight of Sherlock’s body shoving him back toward the treasure cave.

“NO! Sherlock NO! I’d rather let him shoot me. I can’t — love, please!”

Ducking a bullet, Sherlock heaved John into the inner chamber, pausing only to drop and scratch the key out of its lock.

John rolled onto his knees from where he had fallen. He turned in time to see Sherlock diving into the inner cave beside him and the door rolling shut.

“Jes — no!”

He threw himself at the heavy stone, heedless of the gunfire from without, and tried to prevent the door from trapping them inside the cave.

Sherlock had his phone out, but dropped it swiftly. He grasped at John’s shoulders and pulled him back and away. John scrabbled for purchase.

“NO, please. I can’t — Sherlock, no!”

“John, listen to me. Listen to me! They won’t be able to get through without the key or explosives. We have time, and time is all we need. Someone WILL come, and until then…there is a breeze through this cave. There is another entrance somewhere and l _will_ find it…”

John pounded uselessly at the stone as it rumbled into place, sealing them inside the inner cave. He could just make out the sound of shouting and stray gunfire from outside. The chamber was dark as pitch, save for the thready beam from their own torch, which John had dropped earlier.

“John, it’s going to be all right. I promise you, we will not die in here. Listen to me…”

John fell sideways and clutched at the dirt on the floor beneath him, his ears ringing. The cave walls were moving in — they had to be. Closer and closer, restricting the already limited space. His heart was racing and his upper body constricted. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe.

Sherlock was in front of him now. Through blurred vision he could make out his concern and fear, but he could do nothing to alleviate it. He was lost.

His body felt numb, but he registered the gentle palm that cupped his cheek. Sherlock was calling his name, he thought. He could see the man’s lips moving. He tried to reply, but could not gather enough breath to expel the sound. He reached out, desperate, and caught hold of Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock was gathering him close and firm kisses rained over his face. He was helpless to protest as his husband laid him back gently on the ground and straddled his hips. There was a soothing movement over his chest — Sherlock’s hands massaging gently over his diaphragm and up over his ribs. The ringing in his ears began to ease, but the tightness in his chest remained.

Heart still too fast. Much too fast.

“Focus on me, John. Focus on the sound of my voice and the touch of my hands. Can you hear me, my dear?”

John tried to nod, not sure if he had been successful.

“Stay with me. Please. John, you must stay with me.”

John clung to Sherlock’s words. His vision cleared a little and he stared hard at the lovely features of his beloved’s face as it hovered over him. The eyes — the changeable silvery blue-green eyes, still wide with distress — met his own and locked.

“Good. That’s good. You see me, don’t you my dear? Can you feel me? Concentrate on my hands.”

John drew another ragged breath, trying to get more air into his lungs. He could feel the deliberate movements of Sherlock’s fingers and tried to focus on the sensation as they kneaded and stroked, encouraging his body to unclench. His breathing deepened and the unforgiving iron band that had encircled his ribs at the onset of the attack finally began to ease.

“Sher —”

“Shhh. Don’t try to speak. Just breathe. We’re going to be fine. I will always do whatever I must to make sure of that. I will protect you, the way you protect me. They’ll come for us; we’re going to be okay. I promise.”

John could feel the panic receding. He nodded once more, certain this time that his head and neck had obeyed his brain’s command. He reached for Sherlock, aching now for the reassurance of the man’s body beneath his own hands. He grasped one shoulder and held fast.

A hopeful smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Yes, my dear. I’m right here. I will never be anywhere else.”

The hands on John’s body slowed as his husband bent to kiss his mouth. John groaned a little at the gentleness of the contact. He slid his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder to his jaw in an attempt to hold the man for more.

Sherlock withdrew, his brows drawn. “John?”

The icy cold of the panic had now mostly gone, but the adrenaline had arrived. He needed to come down. “Please,” he managed, tugging at his husband’s nape.

“Shall I?” Sherlock bit his lip. “Is this what you need?” He placed his sensitive fingertips against the pulse in John’s neck for a moment. He nodded once, satisfied. “I suppose it has worked before…”

The taller man moved tentatively at first, wriggling down over John’s prone form until he could reach the serviceable canvas belt on John’s camouflage trousers. He met John’s gaze as he began to undo it.

John nodded once more, arching his body into his husband above him. “Please.”

 “Shhhhh, my John. I’ll take care of you.” The belt had been dealt with and Sherlock made quick work of the buttons and flies. He tugged the trousers down just far enough to give him access to John’s still-soft cock. He tugged it out into the open and stroked firmly, teasing his thumb around the head.

John moaned appreciatively, his eyes fluttering closed. He released himself to the feeling, grunting occasionally as Sherlock pumped him to full hardness.

“More,” Sherlock muttered cryptically. John opened his eyes to find his husband tugging at his own trousers.

“Yes,” John breathed. “Fuck, yes.”

Sherlock struggled to get his khakis down over his bottom. He freed his own half-mast cock and spat into his palm. He held John’s gaze as he smoothed the saliva over himself and then dropped swiftly to stretch out over John’s body.

John gasped at the delicious, life-affirming sensation of Sherlock’s hot prick against his own as the man grasped them together. Sherlock held his weight with an elbow planted to the side of John’s body, fisting their cocks with the other. He took advantage of the proximity to capture John’s lips. The kiss was wet and a little frantic. John moaned into his husband’s mouth.

Sherlock tightened his grip, lifting up once more to watch John’s face as he rocked into him. His lovely, full lips were parted, and his eyes now heavy-lidded with lust as he slid his pelvis up and over John’s.

“I love you, John,” he sighed. “I love you more than my own life.”

“Me…me too,” John whimpered. The tension in his body was nearly at its peak and his cock was leaking copiously. “Fuuuuuuck….”

“That’s it,” Sherlock panted, catching the fluid with his thumb and smoothing it over their pulsing shafts. He kissed John briefly, removing his hand to allow the friction between their bodies to do the rest. He braced on both elbows and ground his hips into John’s. “Come for me. Let go, my dear. Let go.”

John shuddered, arched and came, shouting his husband’s name as he shot his load over the bottom of his own shirt and the front of Sherlock’s. It was only a matter of moments before Sherlock did likewise, his forehead dropping to rest against John’s as they recovered.

John dug his fingers into the plump globe of his husband’s arse. “Sorry.”

“Hmmm?”

“Sorry about that, love. Confined spaces.”

“Apparently the ventilation duct wasn’t an anomaly,” Sherlock agreed softly. “I believe I know why —”

John nodded weakly. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out, and I promise I’ll fill in all the details. When we’re home and safe.”

Sherlock made an agreeing noise as he wiggled into John’s caress. He lifted to assess John’s expression. “Better now?”

“As well as can be expected, under the circumstances.”

“I told you, they’ll —”

Sherlock was interrupted by a concussive blast and the sound of rocks shattering and tumbling behind them. Instinctively, he ducked and covered John’s head and body as best he could.

When the dust and debris settled, the two of them coughing, they heard the sound of a familiar voice.

“Dr. Watson? Mr. Holmes? Are you…uh…oh.” John could just make out Elijah’s face through the debris and the shaft of light created by at least one torch — along with that of six or seven uniformed officers behind him. There was a considerable amount of shouting in the outer cavern. “Oh, I…okay, okay. Everybody back. Get back. Quit _staring_ and get back!”

“While I appreciate the attempt to preserve our modesty, Officer,” Sherlock sniped, his pert bottom still exposed by his lowered trousers. “I do think the proverbial cat is out of the bag, don’t you?”

Elijah poked his head back through the opening he and his fellow coppers had created, his expression strained. “Just…put yourselves back together. I’ll do what I can.”

“What you can? Isn’t the law clear on this particular subject?”

“Sherlock…” John hissed.

Elijah glanced back over his shoulder before addressing them once more. “Look, I understand, all right?” he whispered roughly. “Comprendes? I _understand_. Just sort yourselves out and I will fix this when we get back to the mainland.”

John watched as the man dropped a fresh torch onto the floor near them and turned his back. He settled into the newly expanded entry, effectively blocking the other officers’ view into the inner cavern and allowing Sherlock and John privacy to re-dress.

Sherlock sighed heavily, looking down into John’s face. “Just so we’re clear: this is NOT the rescue I meant.”

________________________

John had slept, washed and long since given up pacing the confines of their cell when Mycroft finally arrived. Oddly, he wasn’t even surprised when the door to their cell block opened and the well-dressed bureaucrat appeared.

The man strode into the room with a severe expression. He looked like a disappointed and very annoyed parent who’d been called in to speak with the headmaster. John was cheered by the thought; it wasn’t too fantastic to imagine that he might have had to do so at some point, given Sherlock’s age when their parents passed.

“Thank you, Manuel,” the cultured voice drawled to the young guard hovering nearby. “I will be sure to call if you are needed.”

The young man looked uncertain; he hesitated, one hand on the doorknob. Finally, with another awed glance at Mycroft, he departed.

Mycroft moved closer to their cell. “Well, well. Is this what they are calling a honeymoon these days?”

“Don’t be tedious, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered from the cot, from which he had not moved since they arrived. He slid smoothly into a sitting position to regard his brother.

“I had thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t do anything foolish while you were away.”

“But you had a satellite distress beacon appended to my phone regardless?”

“I had it done before I gave the phone to you, when you returned,” Mycroft drawled. “A precaution, given your habits, just to provide some warning if your phone should be destroyed or unexpectedly deactivated. I didn’t think you would need it on your _honeymoon_.”

“A very clever device, yes. I left it because…well, I’ve learned that it never hurts to have a back-up plan.” Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye. He stood and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Fortunately, I figured out how to activate the beacon manually.” He directed the next comment to John. “I managed to get to it before the stone door closed.”

John smiled patiently. “You might have said.”

“I did! Didn’t I say they would be coming for us?” He pulled one hand free and threw an arm in his brother’s direction. “There ‘they’ are!”

“Not for lack of trouble, mind you,” Mycroft chimed in. “The signal was moving across the open sea; eventually Jane was forced to track you down through the local authorities’ arrest records.”  

“Fine. Good. Whatever. Can we go home now?”

Sherlock ignored this, turning back to his brother. “All the details have been provided to you?”

“Yes. Very amusing,” the man smirked. “Pirate treasure at last, brother?”

“Pirate treasure that no one else had been able to locate, yes.” Sherlock marched to the cell door. “Well?”

“Of course. Your release is being coordinated as we speak. Jane is here with me — oh, don’t worry, John,” he said swiftly, easily assessing his new brother-in-law’s worried expression, “She will not mention this to Harriet. Nor will I. No need for everyone to have an ulcer.”

“It probably wouldn’t have been an issue,” John began, feeling the need to explain. “We weren’t planning to keep any of the treasure, or remove it from the country. If they hadn’t…”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed with a sharp look at his brother. “It might have helped if you had explained that before the fact. And if the authorities of a homophobic government had not caught you in flagrante…” The tall man smiled weakly. “Well, ‘if ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a merry Christmas.’”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock muttered. John could tell he was on the verge of a tirade that could result in Mycroft leaving them exactly where they were — he moved quickly to try and prevent another filial breakdown, but there was no need. All three of them turned as the door opened behind them.

“Dr. Watson, I…oh, I’m sorry.” Elijah stopped short, his eyes raking over Mycroft as he entered the room.

John watched with some fascination as Mycroft turned a very funny colour. Particularly the end of his nose. He stared, quite unabashedly, at the handsome young undercover officer. And Elijah was staring right back.

John knew Sherlock had noticed; he slapped a pre-emptive hand over his husband’s mouth.

“My apologies,” Elijah said, his voice dropping. “I just came to assure John and Sherlock that I was working to get them released. I see that probably won’t be necessary.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and straightened his waistcoat, his chin tilting up. “Mr. Holmes is my younger brother,” he said firmly. “As a representative of the British Government, he will be released into my custody, along with Dr. Watson.”

“Mycroft, this is Elijah — sorry, I don’t think we did last names,” John said, still muzzling the man at his side.

“Barrow. Elijah Barrow.” The young man smiled and extended his hand to the Englishman, who had to (probably for one of the few times in his life) look up slightly. Mycroft continued to stare at Elijah, starting a little as John pointedly cleared his throat. He glanced down at the man’s outstretched hand and, finally, captured it with his own. Elijah beamed, clasping their handshake with his other hand and stepping in a little closer.

John nearly swallowed his tongue as Mycroft’s face was fully infused with a deep flush. “Elijah is with the police, Mycroft,” he provided helpfully, yelping as his husband bit his hand. “Bastard!” He drew the hand away to inspect the damage.

Sherlock took full advantage of his distraction. “Officer Barrow was spying on us, pretending to be part of our hotel’s staff. All the while he was investigating the hotel’s employees as a means of finding the pirates…”

“Who very nearly killed you,” Elijah interjected, regarding the detective. “It’s lucky for you I found Eduardo alive and got a confession from Cliff’s son, along with the frequency of the tracking device, when I did. Is this how you usually thank people?”

“He-he doesn’t,” Mycroft stammered. “Thank people, that is. He’s impossible, really.”

Elijah returned his attention to Mycroft. John clutched his wounded hand to his chest, but could not drag his attention away from the scene playing out in front of them. He was pretty sure that if he struck a match, someone would go up in flames. He’d never before seen such an overwhelming, instant attraction sparking between two people. Well, other than between himself and Sherlock…

_Oh, my._

“If you two are quite through mentally shagging one another, John and I would like to go home,” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherlock —” Mycroft growled the warning. He started to turn back toward his brother.

Once again, John intervened. “Given that your case is now complete, Elijah, maybe you might like to accompany us to the U.K., just for a day or two? You must be due for some leave. We could provide additional details regarding our capture and confinement. You could…well, you still have family in London, don’t you?”

John wasn’t sure, but he felt fairly certain he’d actually seen Mycroft’s ears prick up at this.

“That would be very helpful, Officer Barrow,” he agreed readily. “If we are to avoid issuing a British travel warning for Belize, it would be useful for my people to conduct a complete debriefing. Perhaps I could have a word with your superiors.”

Elijah chuckled. “It’s Lieutenant. And I don’t have any,” he said simply, noting Mycroft’s look of surprise. “I’m 35; the baby face is useful for undercover work. No, if you would like to do this, I am in a position to make the call. I’m head of the anti-piracy task force.”

“And would you be willing…”

“Very.” Elijah’s response was as abrupt as Mycroft’s pleased smile.

“Oh, for goodness sa —” Sherlock moaned as John’s elbow connected with his ribs.  He scowled at his husband, but John merely wrapped an arm about his waist and continued watching the romance now budding right in front of them. Sherlock grumbled, but acquiesced, leaning into John’s embrace and trying not to watch his brother making mooneyes at their former butler.

Mycroft and Elijah were still staring at one another when Jane entered the room several minutes later. “That’s everything, sir. We can depart anytime —” She stopped short as she looked up from her phone. John thought there might have been just a hint of delight on her face before it was carefully removed. Her expression once again completely professional, she stepped forward. “I’ve had Mr. Holmes’ and Dr. Watson’s luggage transferred from the resort to the airfield. The pilot will be ready to depart as soon as the word is given.”

“Excellent,” the man replied, still not turning from the man in front of him. “The word is given. If you would be so good as to have my brother and John released from their cell.”

“Of course.”

Mycroft began to move toward the door, Elijah was moving with him without being asked. “How quickly can you pack?”

“I keep a couple of changes of clothes in my locker,” Elijah replied softly. “And I have a duffel here with most of the other things I would need.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft said softly. “Jane?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Please inform the pilot that we will have one additional passenger for the flight home.”

Jane smirked into her phone, now safely behind her boss’ back. She winked at John. “Absolutely.”

The door snapped closed behind the trio; Sherlock’s response to their departure was an extended groan of pain.

“That was the most tedious, disgusting, offensive…”

“I thought it was sweet,” John interrupted, resting his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Oh, dear god, John — do you have any idea what we may now be forced to endure?” Sherlock extricated himself and began to pace now. “What if Elijah and he…and what if the man stays in England? What if they —?” He blanched. “What if they get married?”

“Sherlock, have you ever seen that look on your brother’s face before?”

“No.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“Of course I do. Don’t be dull.”

“So for the first time EVER you’ve witnessed your brother openly expressing sexual and/or romantic interest in someone, and you think that’s a bad thing?” John asked evenly.

Sherlock opened his mouth to complain, to rant, to whinge — John wasn’t sure which, or at least in which order. Finally, though, the man merely sighed and tugged his husband into his arms. He dropped his chin to the top of John’s head.

“Fine,” he muttered.

“Fine,” John agreed.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock arrive back home safely.

John huddled down under the sill of the window through which Sherlock was now peering. They were on day three of extended surveillance of a suspect in Watford. Greg had gratefully brought them in on the case within hours of their arrival home.

Sherlock had determined that the suspect was too critical to trust the surveillance to Met officers.

“They are sleeping together.”

“Sorry?” John’s head snapped up from where he was reading the Times Lestrade had left behind _— Captain Morgan’s lost hoard: Pirate treasure uncovered in Belize_.

“My brother. And his Caribbean copper,” Sherlock ground out. “They’re sleeping together.”

“And how do you know that?” John smirked to himself, setting the paper on the floor. “We haven’t seen them at all since we got home.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “But you should see the text my brother sent yesterday. If he isn’t able to ring…well, you understand what that means. It — I simply can’t describe it. It’s too painful.”

“My poor, delicate darling,” John soothed. He rubbed over the long back beside him. “I’m sure you’ll survive your brother falling in love. He did.”

“That was different. Entirely.”

“Of course it was,” John chuckled, leaning up for a kiss.

Sherlock turned his attention from the window for a moment to enjoy the brief contact of his husband’s lips. “John, are you quite certain you don’t want to reschedule our honeymoon? I promise not to get us involved in anything —”

John shook his head. “We are not the honeymooning sort, my love. I had a couple of days rest, a little bit of an adventure and some spectacular shagging. As long as I get that now and again, I’m not bothered about where we are.”

“Yes. Good.” Sherlock cleared his throat and looked back toward their suspect’s flat. He checked on John out of the corners of his eyes.

“Anything?”

“No. He — damn!” Sherlock relaxed slightly. He checked the borrowed equipment beside them. “He’s definitely still in there, but the lights have gone out. He’s in for the night.”

“Is he?” John asked innocently. “So we have some time to kill, then?”

“Yes. We — ohhhhh. Yes. Yes, we do.”

John reached for his husband with delight. “Here is good, too,” he offered, gliding his lips over the surface of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Here. Yes...mmmm, good.” Sherlock stroked inquisitive hands over John’s back. “I suppose a honeymoon is in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it?” He kissed a path from John’s cheek back to his mouth.

John sank into the heated kiss, pulling Sherlock down with him to the floor of the unfurnished flat they’d let for their case. “No beaches or fancy hotels needed. Just you. With me.”

Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s shoulders as he rumbled his agreement. “You with me.”

“Always.”

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, my darling readers. Hope you enjoyed it! <3


End file.
